


Codename: Prom Queen

by supergreak



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Crimes And Criminals, FBI, Future Fic, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supergreak/pseuds/supergreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't mess with the Hummels, or, Kurt deals with grief by playing a very long game to get his revenge.</p><p>KNOWN ALIASES: "Fancy"(most common), "The Queen" or "Prom Queen", "Porcelain", "Elizabeth", paired with every last name imaginable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

On the first of May, 2012, Burt and Carole Hummel invested their entire savings in a reputable fund which came highly recommended by their friends, including both the Fabrays and the Andersons.  

Many of their acquaintances did the same, desiring the high rate of return in the bad economy.

On May 15, the investment firm(and all their money) disappeared.  When Burt Hummel went to track down the conman, he walked in on a cleanup job and got a double-shot in the head for his efforts.

On May, 31, an apologetic detective told Kurt that the case was cold, that there were no more leads.

On June first, a week before graduation, Kurt Hummel left a stack of final term papers and a request to send his diploma home with Finn on the desk of Principal Figgins (he was running after the perpetrators of the senior prank, and left the office unlocked).

On June first, a week before graduation, Rachel Berry, Mercedes Jones, Noah Puckerman, Finn Hudson, and Blaine Anderson found packages on their doorsteps- a CD tower topped with a gold star, a favorite scarf, a folder of songs they'd written and a plea to make sure his piano didn't get dusty, a photo album of the Hudmel family, a note.  

_~~I love you~~ _

_~~I'll miss you~~ _

_~~you've forever ruined the GAP for me, I hope you know~~ _

_~~And Candles.  Gaga, what were we thinking, singing a breakup song for our first duet?~~ _

_~~Thank you for the courage and prom night and for always being there for me.~~ _

_~~You were the best thing that ever happened to me,~~ _

_You'll always be my teenage dream_

_(Somehow, the scratch-outs of things unsaid ring truer than any hallmark card sentiments that make the final cut.  Blaine thinks so, at least.)_

On June first, a week before graduation, Kurt Hummel disappears.


	2. Case File B135323

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note that I know nothing of file types or procedures.

*****NOW*****

NAME: Unknown  
KNOWN ALIASES: "Fancy"(most common), "The Queen" or "Prom Queen", "Porcelain", "Elizabeth", paired with every last name imaginable,  
GENDER: unconfirmed but suspected female from the aliases  
AGE: early 20s???  
APPEARANCE: According to rumor, slender and "too damn pretty", see file AJ19563. Has never been seen on camera or by anyone willing to testify, even off the record.  
KNOWN ASSOCIATIONS: Freelance, mid-level, has reportedly contracted for just about every crime ring from New York to Los Angeles, working higher gradually.  
NOTE 3/2016- Will not work with human traffickers. One group that attempted to trick Fancy into cleaning up their mess found their leader stripped and hogtied on the front steps of the Chicago PD. With a bow on top. A pink bow. A sparkly, pink bow.  
CRIMES: Suspected of more than 100 counts of theft just under the felony line. Suspected of evidence tampering. Key suspects in all sorts of non-violent cases find all evidence against them...not gone, but manipulated just enough to pin those crimes (and more) on another, bigger fish- usually a competitor. Never any signs of manipulation or breaking in to the _~~freaking~~ police department_ , except that officers and file clerks swear up and down that the name on the books was different, that the fingerprints matched, that the camera showed a different man. Even when caught in time before trial, manipulated evidence is inadmissible in court, so the suspects go free anyway. Specifics on p. 2-37  
BAU, 2/2016: 75% of the known criminals freed by "The Queen" are single fathers with minor children. Look into single fathers who died or were arrested, leaving the children alone.  
White Collar, 2/2016: Do you realize how many kids in this country have daddy issues stemming from abandonment? Too damn many.  
(Updated 6.2.17) Still no usable evidence for anything. Fancy's a ghost.  
NOTES: No indication that the suspect will use deadly force. Avoids guards in general, but incapacitated several by chloroform, sleeping pills in coffee, and tazer(B2542E, CA9695, and AR0124, respectively).


	3. Disappearing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperation smells like carne asada, today.

**THEN:**

The cops gave up after six months.  Kurt Hummel’s disappearance was sad for his friends, true, but he was eighteen and left a note, with no signs of foul play.  Finn kept his room intact as he worked at Hummel Tires and Lube, getting a degree in management at night at OSU.  Mercedes wore Kurt’s scarf at every audition and interview through her music education degree, and she co-wrote an album of songs with Rachel and Puck dedicated to him. Songs about fashion and crushes and first love and loss and mourning.  It was called _Disappearing Act_ , after its first single. 

 

 

**November 1, 2012**

From: Lupe (beiber_is_awwwwsum@yahoo.com)

To: Jose (bad_ass_848363@gmail.com)

Subject: DAD GOT ARRESTED

Look, I know we aren't speaking.  But I don't know who else to ask, but my criminally-minded ex-boyfriend.  He started doing some extra work for his boss, off the books, to save up for my college fund.  He didn't want me to know about it, but you know I rock at eavesdropping, so don't even start.

Just- ask around, and see if there's anyone you know who can spring him?  Or at least get him a lawyer, there has to be something that can keep him out of the big house.  

I AM SEVENTEEN.  I AM NOT READY TO RAISE SIX LITTLE KIDS ON MY OWN, OKAY?

J, just- please.  I'll give you another shot to get cleaned up and we can even give it one more try, if you can get my daddy home.

Even though I'm still pissed off at you for fucking around behind my back, I still love you.  And I'm begging you, help me.  You've got to know someone.  

PLEASE.

-L

From: Jose (bad_ass_848363@gmail.com)

To: Lupe (beiber_is_awwwwsum@yahoo.com)

Subject: RE: DAD GOT ARRESTED

Chica, dat sux ballz.  But I got my act straightened up, yknow?  So no can do.  

Wish I could- you are still _smokin'_.

-J

(note passed in marching band, written on a wrinkled copy of _Stars and Stripes Forever_ )

L- There's this chick, okay?  And she's supposed to be, like, magical at getting the cops to spring people, and no one knows how she does it.  She, like, makes evidence disappear and crap, without getting bros in trouble with the mob or the cops.

Put an ad on Craigslist, creative gigs, pretty pretty princess in the title.  don't use ur regular email.  If the response mentions slushies, it's the right person.  all i know.

love you still

-J

PRETTY PRETTY PRINCESS

help wanted for a party, six little kids and a dad in a big house.  Please make our year a little brighter and respond to demilovatosnum1fan@gmail.com.

 

Two vague, short emails later, and Lupe heard the doorbell ring at six on a Friday night.  

"Jose, I can't go out right now...and you're not Jose."

"No, I'm not."  The  guy said. He had short hair and pretty, pretty cheekbones.  "You _are_ Lupe, correct?"

She nodded slowly, eyes wide.

It took five hours and a plate of tamales, but they went through every scrap of evidence the public defender had sent over.  He left without ever telling Lupe his name.

"I was never here, understand?  You don't tell your father, or your boyfriend, or your priest.  If you have future need, advertise for a gay-friendly room for rent in Salt Lake City."

Lupe nodded with a yawn.  "But don't I have to pay you or something?"

"Sweetie, you can't afford school supplies, I'm not going to take your rent money."

"Please, accept something."

"The carne asada," he hefted the tupperware.  "And a future favor.  Oh, and burn those capris, they're absolutely horrid and a crime against fashion.  Dark wash is your friend.  Best of luck."  With that, he nodded and smartly turned, flipping his hat back on as he walked down the driveway.

She lifted a hand to wave, but knew he wouldn't look back. 


	4. Two Gigs, Two Friends, and Two Queens Taking Tea

**THEN:**

Puck maybe went a little crazy. _He_ was supposed to be the one in prison or dead, in twenty years.  Not Kurt.  He was supposed to be the one who got out of this town and got his name in lights.  The one who wouldn’t be tainted as a Lima Loser the rest of his life.  So he got a _little_ drunk those first few weeks, until he noticed that Finn hadn’t moved from his house, or _showered,_ for two weeks.  And it’s not like Mrs. Carole was in any condition to kick his ass back into motion- she just lost her husband and her second son. 

So Puck set down the tequila and walked over to Finn’s.  It took most of his strength to get the much-taller boy into the shower, and you know what?  If Hudson wasn’t together enough to take off his own damn boxers, he could shower clothed.  While the water was running, Puck picked up most of the dirty laundry  and dishes in the toxic waste heap Finn called a room, and went down to start a load of each.  Then he came back up and turned on Finn’s computer, digging out some decently-clean clothes for him to wear while it booted up.  He dropped the stack on the bathroom floor, glad the Hudmels had opaque shower curtains and not the see-through ones.

There were parts of his best friend he did _not_ want to see.  (He ignored the part of his brain reminding him that they took baths together until they were six).

And then he found the Apply Now link on the OSU-Lima page, filled out all of Finn’s details, and hit the button.  He knew Finn already had a FAFSA- Kurt had brow-beat all of them into filling it out by March 1- and he _could_ afford it.  Life insurance was good for some things.  Once Finn looked dressed and vaguely awake, Puck directed him to the shop.  Because playing HALO in your underwear was no way to respect the memory of Burt Hummel, and Kurt would kick both their asses if they put all his hard work ensuring they graduated to waste. 

**June 2013:**

It was the first time Kurt could honestly say he’d had _fun_ since Then.  He was bouncing around the South in his car of the month, taking odd jobs as he spotted the opportunities- none of the little gigs paid all that well, if at all, but they got his name out there.  Or, well, an alias and the phone number of his answering service, but it wasn't like he could pass out business cards, could he?  No one ever called him directly, except on his burn phones.

So when his normal phone- the one he called his answering service on, the one unattached to an alias- rang, he rolled his eyes and tried not to panic.

"Em, what did I tell you about calling me unannounced?"  Kurt sighed.  Seriously, getting an excitable teenager for an answering service had some drawbacks, like the inability to follow directions.

"Not unless it's the Queen of England or Lady Gaga herself."  She parroted perfectly, even mimicking Kurt's tone.

"So why are you calling?"

"Um, well, it's the Queen of England.”  The line went silent for a beat.  Two beats.

"She left a message?  Apparently the prince screwed something up, I don't know, she wouldn't say, but she wants whatever it is gone before the press gets a hold of it."




Kurt took a deep breath.  And then another.

Emily just kept talking.  "…and so I said, he's somewhere in Louisiana, I think, and she said, my private jet will be waiting at the airport in New Orleans as soon as he gets there.  Holy Swiss Cheese, a private jet!"

Kurt laughed and thanked her before hanging up the phone.  And hanging a U-ey back towards the city, bursting out in laughter every time his thoughts circled back around to _The Queen of England_.

Now, a week later, he was sitting at a table with Queen Elizabeth herself, sipping tea and making small talk about music and fashion.  She found his middle name hilarious and commanded him to sing for her as soon as he made a passing complaint about the deplorable lack of parts written for countertenors.   And so he stood and did _As If We Never Said Goodbye,_ a capella, in the royal garden.




The Queen of England was sitting there, politely applauding his singing in her gloves, smiling at him.  Oh, Freddy Mercury on a pogo stick, this was not his life.  

“Darling, you ever find that man you’re tracking down-  no, don’t give that look, I did my research-  and retire from your life of petty crime, I would love to see you on the West End.  I have seats, you know.  It may not be the original Globe of my namesake, but I still love good theater.  Maybe something with John Barrowman; I do love the way that man looks in tight trousers.”  She went on to regale him with a tale of knighting Elton John, and how he’d flirted with the royal guards in an attempt to get them to smile. 

Kurt just gripped his tea cup tightly and nodded, doing his best to keep a straight face.

And they said crime didn’t pay.

 

 

**THEN:**

It took all of their persistence- Puck and Finn, working together- to get through college.  Rachel ran off to New York as planned, because the memories hurt less there than it did in Lima.  She funneled her grief into performance, and shocked the admissions committee.  They had granted her admission in the spring, but all of their notes said that Rachel Berry was technically marvelous, but lacking the passion that so many of her competitors had.  Like that countertenor she’d travelled to auditions with had.  They thought it would take years and serious coaching to get her to stop projecting, well, what they wanted to see, and starting actually _performing._  

The vocal coach on the committee had already started writing parts for a countertenor, and was sorely disappointed.  He eventually got the story from young Miss Berry, and filed the parts in the back of his cabinet with a sigh.  And got the secretary to change his response on file from “attending, Fall 2012” to “deferred”.  A voice like that didn’t come along every day, and he didn’t want to lose a star like that to NYU or MSM or Pace or, God forbid, _UCLA._   Now _that_ would be tragic. 

**NOW:**

MAYOR SUSPECTED OF YAKUZA TIES-

August 12, 2013

MAYOR REFUSES TO SPEAK RE CRIME RING, CORRUPTION

August 23, 2013

MAYOR’S TRIAL STARTS TODAY

September 3, 2013

D.A. FURIOUS: KEY EVIDENCE IN MAYOR’S TRIAL TAMPERED WITH

September 17, 2013

ALL CHARGES AGAINST MAYOR DROPPED

September 26, 2013

MAYOR RESIGNS DESPITE DROPPED CHARGES; RUMORS ABOUND

The Yakuza were generous employers, especially when it was a _Haole_ who freed a man who would have ratted on them eventually, and knew far too much about the workings of their operation to stay in prison.  It would have been much more difficult to dissuade the police from investigating, if they’d had to silence the mayor in a more permanent manner.  As it was, he resigned to a quiet life on the big island.  

The local leader found the terms easy to accept- a favor, to be collected at a later date.  He couldn’t imagine any favor this _bishōnen_ would request that he couldn’t handle, or wasn’t willing to do.  In fact, since he didn’t want to owe the kid _too_ much of a favor, he arranged for a hundred thousand dollars in an offshore account, slipping the account information into his jacket on the way out.  Cover transportation and costs with a healthy sum of “keep your mouth shut”.


	5. Interns and Invisible Ink

**THEN:**

The note is still in Blaine’s wallet.  He’s gone on a few dates, but none of them compare to Kurt, so he’s never gotten attached.  His roommates in college mock him relentlessly, but he knows that someday, Kurt Hummel will walk back into his life.

**2014**

The Irish mob in New York called her Prom Queen, or just The Queen.  Recommended by their family in Chicago, they contacted the Queen when the son of the boss was hauled in for questioning because the cops saw him going into a storage unit where they found unregistered weapons.  

But before any of the evidence got logged, his fingerprints vanished, and the fingerprints of one of the scariest gang leaders in the city appeared.  

The boss called the contact number they had for the Queen.  “I can’t thank you enough.  I trust the payment is sufficient?”

She laughed, high and beautiful.  “Most definitely.  And don’t worry, I won’t be calling in that favor any time soon.  I just like to make friends with powerful men like you.”

He preened, not that she could see it over the phone line.  “May I call you again?”  What, he was married, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t flirt.

“This number will be going down tonight, but if you have further business, you know how to contact me.  Good evening.”

So he had a crush on the ghost lady who’d just saved his boy from prison; he didn’t think that was a bad thing.

 

**2015**

This time, it was three terrified children, whose mother had declined WitSec and who had a vengeful, psychotic killer after them.  The mother was in love with the psycho, which didn’t help.

Identities were fun to make, and Kurt actually  went in as a man on this one.  They didn’t trust women, much, and they definitely didn’t trust stereotypically masculine men.  But someone as flamboyant as Kurt Hummel, channeling his fourteen-year-old self?  Not threatening at all.  He didn’t use a name, but worked for weeks to get them set up in a new community in Alaska, with no records of transit and completely falsified medical records.  He called in a favor from a retired Madame to be their mother of record, bought them a house, and left her a local bookstore with which to support the family.  He couldn’t tie himself down, couldn’t support them to adulthood, but could provide them with the means to support themselves, if they lived frugally and worked hard.  

The FBI looked for the children, but the mother didn’t realize they were missing for a week- a camping trip was their cover.  By that time, the trail was cold and they were safely far, far away from Kentucky.  And honestly, the Agent In Charge knew the kids were probably safer wherever they’d run away to- their mom was crazy and their dad wanted them dead.  

So he let the case go cold.  And got a letter of gratitude, mailed from Lesotho on Swiss letterhead, assuring him that the children were safe and sound and together, and were grateful to get away from their volatile parents.  He burned it in a barbeque at a park three counties away and went back to the office, sitting at his desk and flipping through his new case file. 

His painfully earnest teddy bear of an intern rapped at the doorframe, holding a mug of steaming coffee.  “Anything else I can help you with, agent Cassidy?”

He took a sip of the coffee- black, two sweet n’ lows, two sugars- and shook his head.  “Nope.  Why don’t you go home early today, David?  It’s been a long few weeks, and I’m sure you could use a break.”

The kid smiled and waved on his way out the door, grabbing his leather backpack off his desk and adjusting his tie.  Damn, but they got younger every year.

 

**2016**

She was ridiculously excited, and nervous as hell.  It was her Broadway debut, and though Rachel Berry had known from an early age that someday, she’d be on that stage, it was still and incredible relief to actually get there.  She’d done a few Off-Broadway shows before getting through an audition for the lead role in _Twilight: The Musical._  Her Edward was an asshole and more of a diva than her, but at least her Jacob was nice.  Also, hot.  But she and Finn were on-again, even with the long-distance, so she didn’t mention that to him.  Sure, it was absolutely ridiculous, somehow combined the first three books into one over-dramatic musical, and the script was cheese, but there were a few good musical numbers and most importantly, it was _Broadway._ This commercial crap sold tickets, and she was finally where she belonged.  

She took a deep breath and stepped into the spotlight.

Hours later, she waltzed back into her dressing room, setting down the enormous bouquets from her dads and her friends.  On her dressing table lay a single rose, a thin black ribbon tying a note to the stem.  

E-

You were magnificent, but then, I expected nothing less from you.  Congratulations on your debut.

Always,

-Galinda

With a squeak she dropped the rose, then picked up the note again, blinking to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.  The words read no differently a second time.  She turned to lock the door and sank down to the floor, picking up her phone from where she’d plugged it in under the table.  Her roommate was number three on speed dial, which she was grateful for- her hands shook too much to dial a full number, much less remember one.  

He picked up on the first ring.  “I’m out front, Rach, whenever you’re ready to go.”

Her voice was high and shaky, and it wasn’t from belting all night.  “Blaine?”

“Yeah?”

“Please get in here.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Just- just get in here, okay?”  She took a deep breath and pushed herself off the floor.  Rachel pulled off her costume, hanging it up and getting dressed into street clothes.  She was tying her shoes when there was a knock on the door.  She pulled it open and fell into his arms.  

He mumbled into her hair-helmet.  “Is this a happy-hug or a sad-hug?”

“I don’t know, Blaine.  But-”  She took a step back, straightening her shirt.  “Read the note.  Pink rose.”

Blaine picked it up and smelled it.  “Kurt gave me a bouquet of these, once.”  He said wistfully.  “During the auditions for _West Side Story._ ”

Rachel sniffed.  “Just read the note.  Tell me if I’m imagining this.”

He raised an eyebrow with a smile, clearly humoring her.  He opened the tiny card, then his face went pale.  His hands and voice were shaking.  “That’s his handwriting. I should _know_ , I’ve read that damn note of his every day for the last four years.  I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen apart yet.”

Rachel asked, “Did you read it?  It’s him, Blaine.  When I last sung on this stage, and not in rehearsal, it was because we broke in to sing _For Good,_ and I sang Elphaba’s part.  No one else knows that.   _Finn_ doesn’t know that.”

Blaine wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.  “He’s still alive.   Somewhere.  And tonight, he was here.”




“But there aren’t any security cameras, not in here, and he chose the best time for everyone to be distracted, and ignore someone coming in.  There’s no way we’ll catch him now, if he doesn’t want to be found.”  Rachel paced back and forth in the tiny room.  “If he’s free to come and see a stupid Broadway musical, then he wasn’t kidnapped or anything.  Since he hasn’t reached out or just come home, then he obviously doesn’t _want_ to be found.  It’s possible he’s in danger or on the wrong side of the law, but Blaine, we can’t tell _anyone._  If Kurt doesn’t want to be found...”

“Then we’ll honor his wishes.”  Blaine looked back down at the note, rubbing a thumb over the blank top section.  “There’s something here.”  He held it up to his nose.  “Smells like lemons.”  With a tentative smile, he held it up to the bright lights over the table, watching as letters slowly formed.  

_my promise stands_

Rachel peeked over Blaine’s shaking shoulder as he whispered, “I’ll never say goodbye to you.”


	6. SEALS and Santana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to deeniebee28 for guessing something in this chapter correctly :)

“Darling, we’ve got a live one.  Time sensitive, in San Diego.” 

Kurt yawned and rubbed his eyes, squinting at the hotel alarm clock.  “Em, it’s half past two.  What on _Earth_ is _this_ time-sensitive?”

“Seal Team Eleven stumbled across a sex trading ring while being their ‘normal troublemaking selves’, according to their highest ranking NCO, but utilized some not-exactly-legal methods in breaking into the compound, apprehending the scumbags, and freeing the girls.  And boys.”

By the time she finished her sentence, Kurt was on his feet and half-dressed, throwing the few things he’d unpacked into his duffel, sweeping off the bathroom counter and grabbing the garment bag from the closet.  He slipped into his loafers.  “Text me the address?  I’m in Orange County, so I’d say two hours, but it’s the middle of the night and the speed limit on the 15 is 75.  And it’s not enforced.  Standard blame it on somebody we like less deal, right?” 




“Right-o. I’ve got a term paper due in the morning, so I won’t be sleeping until after 10 am, at least.  Call if you need anything.”

“Got it.”  He ended the call and glanced around the room, hoping he hadn’t forgotten anything.  He took the stairs two at a time towards the lobby, not wanting to wait on the elevators.  The girl working the night shift at the front desk blinked owlishly at him. 

“Sorry, I’m in 219?  I just got a call- my sister’s been in a car accident, and she lives in Fresno, and can I just check out now?  I’m sorry for the inconvenience-”

“It’s none at all.  Same card on record?”  He nodded and yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.  “That’s all I need from you.  Drive safe!” 

He pushed the upper limits of the speed limit on his way to San Diego, not attracting attention by going faster than the weaving motorcyclists or the racers in the fast lane, but definitely above the posted signs.  Honestly, nobody cared at this time of night, as long as you weren’t reckless or drunk. 

When he knocked on the door of the apartment, a fourth-floor walk-up three miles off base, the man who answered was a giant of a man.  “You Porcelain?”  He rumbled.

Kurt nodded, shivering in his thin jacket.  He hadn’t dressed for three a.m.  The giant nodded and backed up, letting him inside and shutting the door behind him.  Gathered on couches around a coffee table were five equally built men.  Kurt dragged the table out away from them at sat on it cross-legged, smiling brightly.  “Somebody give me good news, something along the lines of ‘the cops haven’t been called yet’ and ‘no kids were injured in the making of this production’.  Then we’ll get to strategy.”

A lanky fellow raised an eyebrow.  “Not one for courtesies, are you?”

Kurt raised one right back.  “Do we have time for niceties?  Because if we do, and I’m missing sleep for nothing, I’ll be rather miffed.”

“Shut _up,_ Klick.  He’s trying to help us, remember?”  The short guy next to him punched his arm.  “I’m Hernandez, medic.  The asshole’s Klick, he’s our sniper, and the cops have _not_ been called.”

“And the kids are all right. What do you need?”  This one, he looked like a more-in-shape Azimio.  It was slightly disconcerting. 

Kurt blinked.  _Focus_.  “Maps.  Timelines.  What’s the status on the traffickers?”

Goliath in the armchair- seriously, the guy looked like he could bench-press a refrigerator- handed him a blueprint of what looked like an office building.  “One dead, eight injured, mild to moderate, all locked up in the basement, solid concrete with a reinforced steel door.”  He said before outlining the events of the evening in short, curt sentences.  And here he thought military efficiency was a joke! 

Kurt tapped the blueprint against his knee.  “Okay, here’s the plan.  A mid-level Al Quaeda operative is staying at a local Holiday Inn, according to my sources.  I can plant sufficient evidence to place him at the scene, and you were all intelligent enough to avoid the cameras at the surrounding buildings and leaving fingerprints.  And using weapons.”  He paused.  When the SEAL had mentioned _eliminating the target,_ Kurt asked about weapons.  People were far too sloppy with guns, leaving bullets everywhere.  But, apparently, special ops didn’t need paltry things like weapons to kill.  Which made the job easier, but was slightly disconcerting for Kurt to be in a room of eight men who could kill him with their bare hands.  At least they were noble military types- if the same group were his normal kind of clients, he would have brought backup. Or insisted on meeting in a public park.

He shook his head and continued.  “The cops will be too busy creaming their dockers over stumbling on a Most Wanted to dig deeper, and just in case, your little trafficking friends will get a little dose of forgetfulness before the morning.  The kids are too traumatized to remember faces, even if one of them woke up.  I’ll go get your friend who’s keeping watch and take care of our little administrative details, the cops will get a call of a disturbance ten minutes after I leave, and everyone will be home to their families by breakfast.   Questions?”




Hernandez raised his hand.  “I can go with you if you want?”

Klick snickered.  “Oooh, Nightingale’s got a crush!  How _cute_!”

Kurt ignored him.  “You’re the medic, right?  Sure, you can tag along.”  Kurt hopped up, shaking the sleep out of his legs.  “You can take care of our dear little friend.”

Once back in his truck, Kurt turned down the radio and smirked at his passenger.  “So, Nightingale?”

Hernandez slouched in the seat and groaned.  “It’s my call sign, you know, for ops?   The team gives everyone a handle, and Lt. Smith- he’s the one keeping watch- was campaigning for Ducky.  Because NCIS, right?  But then Klick hears me singing in the shower, says I sing like a bluebird.  But then AT-AT—that’s  Sergeant Walker—says it’s a nightingale, ‘cause Florence, and I’m the medic, you know, and it stuck.”

Kurt laughed.  “And you can never live it down?  Like the family stories that go around every Christmas dinner.”  He had friends like that, once.

“Exactly.”  He tilted his head with a cocky grin and started into a tale about Sgt. Walker, a proposal dinner, and Klick butt-dialing in the middle of a hook-up at a bar. 

 

“Any static?”  Hernandez asked as Smith rose to his feet. 

The taller man shook his head.  “Nah.  All still on the western front.  Kids sound asleep.”

“Good.”  Kurt said.  He tossed a leather case to Hernandez, who was kneeling by the first prisoner.  “There’re sufficient doses of sleep with a side of amnesia in there; I call it retcon.”

Smith snorted, which earned him a “ _geek_ ” from his teammate. 

“You understood it, too, kettle.” 

Kurt cleared his throat.  “Boys?”

“Sorry!” They chimed, and quickly got to the serious business of framing a very bad man for the one crime he _didn’t_ commit.  Just before sunrise, Kurt pitched his voice as a little girl and called the tipline from a landline in an office building laying vacant, three doors down.  They’d chosen it for the lack of cameras covering the exits and nearby streets- not hard to do in San Diego. 

The children, bedraggled but mostly unharmed, were safe with their parents by the morning news.  One of the oldest, a ten-year-old spitfire, told the news anchor in a very serious voice about their kidnapper’s plans for shipping them to southeast Asia, freight.  They had been taken from cities all over the country over the last year.  One, though, had no parents with him in the press shot.  Fox 5 caught up to them in Yuma, asking why they hadn’t answered the police department’s calls of their child, found. 

The father took a long drag of his cigarette.  “The little faggot wasn’t worth a thing to me, so I sold ‘im for a little extra rent money.  Maybe the next one we have’ll turn out better.” 

His arrest for child abandonment wasn’t a surprise to anyone.  Once he was sentenced, though…three rival prison gangs made their displeasure with him known.  The guards still can’t figure out why they chose to get along enough to conspire together, even for one day.  Though his death in prison was surprising, no one was particularly upset at the loss.

 

 

 

 

**2018**

Santana Lopez was incensed.  Her big case was just...done.  None of the evidence the detectives _supposedly_ had was admissible in court.  What didn’t mysteriously disappear had been somehow _changed_ to point to other suspects.  She fumed all the way down to the precinct.  “What the hell is this?  You told me we had solid evidence.  Now we’ve got nothing?”

No one had any answers.  She asked everyone- the M.E., the chief of police, the street cops and the other A.D.A.s.  She whined to the clerks, and one- an eight-two year old firecracker named Eleanor who ruled D.C’s gossip circuit- said to ask the criminals who was capable, because she’d heard of the same thing happening before, in L.A., in Hawaii, in Montana and in Iowa.  

“It’s probably happened more than that, but since there’s never been any evidence of foul play...”

So Santana Lopez tags along with her favorite street cop, a fresh-faced kid from Illinois, when he goes and talks to the informants.

One of the hookers on Fourth takes a long drag on her cigarette and laughs.  “Sound’s like Fancy’s work, to me.  See, I hear in Atlanta, Fancy got a sister cleared of charges, the drugs and the solicitation and everything.  Like, she _knew_ her fingerprints were on that table with the crack, and she’s like, I’m screwed, right?  But when the cops when to dust for prints, they only found her pimp’s prints. And he was a mean one, so nobody missed him.”

Another girl sidled up next to her, leaning against the brick wall and posing.  “You talkin’ ‘bout Fancy?  One of my hermanas out in Vegas says she was set to spend five in the slammer when all the charges were dropped.  Fancy got her into rehab and paid for her kid to go to one of those fancy charter schools.  They just got a call, hey, we got your payment for the next five years of school, and you need to come in for a uniform fitting.  No joke.  Never even met her, just got a note, said, **your little boy deserves to have a mom around.  Best of luck, Fancy.**

The first nodded solemnly.  “Fancy’s our patron saint.  Gets the young ones off the street, keeps everyone off drugs, gets the bad pimps arrested or disappeared, keeps us out of jail, and helps those who want out.  Especially the ones with kids.  So maybe, that mob boss you’re talking about?  Maybe he’s got patron saint, too.”

It sounded like superstition.  It sounded like an urban legend.  But the name _Fancy, Fancy, Fancy_ kept going around her head.  She looked it up in their banks, but got nothing.  Google only got her the Reba McIntire song, so she pulled the phone closer on her desk, leaned back, and dialed a familiar number.

“Karofsky.”

“This is Lopez.  And how’s my favorite FBI agent doing?”  She twisted the cord around her finger idly.  

“Pretty good, actually.  But you didn't call to hear about the daily workings of Missing Persons or my date with that firefighter, so what do you want?”

“You can’t just _tease_ me like that, Karofsky.  You owe me dirt later.  All the juicy details. But first, look up a name for me.”

“What’s the name?”

“Fancy.”  There was silence on the other end of the line.  “What?!  It sounded familiar, but I can’t figure out why.”

Dave cleared his throat.  “Fancy...Fancy’s what I always used to call Hummel.  Kurt.  Before he disappeared.”

“Well, someone else took it on as a nickname, because “Fancy” has been getting criminals off by stealing, altering, and manipulating evidence.”  She told him what she knew.  “It’s all rumors, here, but I thought you could call White Collar, see if they’d heard the name before.”

“Will do.  It’s just...hearing that word, after all these years.  It makes me think of him, you know?  I’d like to think he’d be proud of me, out and proud at the F.B.-freaking-I., but...I don’t know.  I hope he’s still out there, somewhere.”

“You know I do, too.  So find me whatever you can, okay?”  she sighed.  “So, firefighter.  Spill.  How big was his-”

“SANTANA!”


	7. Trouble is a Friend of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puck, fingernails, Mexico, and we have _really_ got to stop meeting like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief Kurt/OMC and mentions of Blaine

# Then

Pretty much the only time Blaine ever got laid was when Puck drug him to bars.  He could refuse the blind dates and set-ups that Rachel and Mercedes tried to arrange, because he wasn’t going to lead someone on.  But Puck’s plans were never…relationship oriented, and honestly, it had been a _long_ dry spell between Kurt and the first time Puck came to New York to crash on his couch.  With copious amounts of alcohol and a little recklessness in him, he could usually find a no-strings hook-up.  Preferably, some bear who looked nothing like Kurt, because if there was a valid comparison, Blaine’s brain would make it and then he’d end up crying instead of having sex. 

Though, that sometimes turned sour.  Apparently, one time he’d been trashed and had gotten nostalgic and hit on Puck, who let him down gently and carried him back to the apartment and actually tucked him in, like a little kid. 

In the morning, he tried to apologize.  Puck held up his hands.  “Dude, chill.  I’m a stud, of course you want me.  And your alcohol tolerance is shit.  Remember when you made out with Berry?  But you were the S.O. of my boy, so you’re off limits.  Even if he’s AWOL.  I’m not going to make the mistakes I made in high school all over again.  Nothing against you.”

So they carried on, Blaine and his power wingman who managed to find each of them someone to go home with, whenever he was in town.  Puck, unlike Finn, or Rachel, or Mercedes, or any of their other friends, never gave him grief.  He used protection and made his terms clear and texted Puck status and location, but he wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life celibate because the love of his life disappeared without a trace four years ago.   And of course he wasn’t bitter about that at all.




# 2018

Agent Francisco Badilla of Homeland Security pulled up his lucky socks and tied his boots, whistling as he started his day.  Back when he was a baby agent, he’d been held hostage by a upstart domestic terrorist, and a gorgeous stranger had sprung him from the cell in the middle of the night.  The Tangos didn’t even _wake up_.  So, this hot dude just drops him at a truck stop three miles down the road, kicks him out of the SUV with a handful of quarters.  Francisco came around to the driver’s side, knocked on the window.  The guy rolled his eyes and rolled it down. 

“Don’t I even get to know your name?”

He shook his head minutely, smirking.  “You can call me Porcelain, if you must call me something.”

“Nah, too many syllables.  I think I’ll call you Trouble.”

He laughed.  “Suit yourself.  But I must be off.”

“Can I thank you, at least?  For saving my thumbnails, if not my life?”

The guy tilted his head to the side.  “I can accept gestures of gratitude as long as you don’t consider it payment.”  He said after a moment.

Francisco grinned and quirked his eyebrows.  “Awesome.”  Grateful for his height, he tugged the hottie’s head down and caught his lips in a searing kiss before letting him go with a smack of lips. 

“ _That’s_ a thank you?  Who taught _you_ manners?”  He didn’t sound angry, just amused.  At least his gaydar wasn’t _that_ broken.

He donned his best grin.  “Nobody did.  You want the job?”

Hot Criminal Guy just stared at him for a second before laughing so hard he had to rest his head on the steering wheel.  “You, just- scram, Mr. Law Enforcement.  Practice your Captain Jack somewhere else.  I don’t need your kind of complications.”  He made a vague ‘shoo’ing direction in Francisco’s direction, and he took the hint, putting his hands in the air and backing up as the SUV pulled away.  Damn shame, though, his ass was _hot_ in that catsuit. 

He called into base, getting a ride and a mountain of paperwork for his effort, wondering all the while who ordered his rescue.  He did some asking around, and apparently, his second cousin Lupe had heard and knew who to contact if you needed a quiet extraction in the middle of the night.  Next family reunion, he’d sent some inquisitive glances her way, but she just shrugged and said, “You’re family.  I wasn’t going to wait for your boss to decide that there was probable cause to investigate that guy’s ranch.”

So, yeah, he was pretty damn lucky.  Three years later, he was up for promotion and had a reputation for doing his job well.  He smiled rakishly at the little old ladies on his way to work, grinned through getting a new undercover assignment, and spent the next three weeks in deep cover.  One of the cartels was supplementing their drug income by smuggling in members of Al Quaeda, and Homeland Security wanted to figure out how so they could shut it down.  He was getting in close and everything was going smoothly until a newspaper in Oklahoma decided to reprint the article on that domestic terrorism thing back in the day, and his face made it onto the third page.  When they slapped the paper in front of him, his only thought was, _Damn, why can’t I chase illiterate criminals?_

***

**Two Weeks Later**

Fransisco tumbled down the stairs, back into the grimy basement.  He slowly pushed himself up off the floor with his good arm, cradling his right hand (now sans fingernails) protectively in front of his body.  He grunted and bit his lip when one unprotected nail bed brushed against his shirt.  He managed to keep from crying out, but couldn’t prevent the tears squeezing out. 

“Ah, gracias.”  He let her pour water over his hand- it hurt like _fuck_ but he was worried about infection- and inhaled sharply at the sting.  Her first aid skills surprised him a little as she competently wrapped the soft cotton around his fingers, tying it in place with one of her hair ribbons.  But, he supposed, she and her twin brother Manuel were the only children of a Mexican general.  And, as their current predicament indicated, prime targets for kidnapping and all sorts of other trouble.  So it made a little sense that the seven-year-olds had basic first aid. 

They’d arrived four days ago, dirty and hungry but mostly unharmed.  And it looked to stay that way, for dead leverage was useless.  He’d searched the room high and low since his imprisonment started, but there was little except a toilet in the corner, a case of bottled water, and a beat-up old copy of _La Biblia,_ with generations of names in careful calligraphy in the front.  With the kids had come a case of Top Ramen, a box of assorted fruit cups (but no spoons), and the doll that ‘Rita hadn’t let go of the entire time, except when she was using the toilet or eating.  And then it was in arm’s reach.  Right now, it was under her arm and she tied her magenta hair ribbon in a careful bow (bunny ears and all) around his hand.  He suspected that the cartel members simply didn’t have the willpower to take it from her. 

There also wasn’t much to do to entertain twins(twins!) while in captivity.  He didn’t want to tell ghost stories or any of his adventures(they were scared enough) but they did want stories, so he recited every fairy tale he could remember (in Spanish, which was difficult, because some of them didn’t translate so well.  Nothing rhymed right).  He sang them songs in both languages, rocking the sobbing Manuel to sleep and letting the ever-stoic Margarita know his lap had room enough for two.  He read them comforting passages of rescue and safety from the Bible- thank God for concordances, right?- and had started yesterday on the passages his Mom had always called “The Girl Power Passages”.  Brave, smart Deborah who led the army to victory when the male general was too scared.  Tabitha.  Esther.  Rita especially liked that one- the bad guys died dramatically and in large numbers. 

It wasn’t just distraction for them, it was for him as well.  Focusing on keeping the kids calm made his hand(and back, and feet, and dislocated shoulder) not hurt so badly.  It was friendly human company, which he hadn’t seen for weeks.  It was…an upside-down head poking out of the ceiling?  He stared at the now-coverless air vent, and the head stared right back, rolling his eyes. 

“We have _got_ to stop meeting like this.”  Trouble said with a short laugh. “Okay, pass the kids up?”

Francisco shook his head, coughing out a laugh.  “Well, I see you lost your manners, too.  Hi, how are you?”  He teased as he stood up, pulling Manuel’s thumb out of his mouth and hoisting him up to the air vent.

"Why are you even here? "Trouble accepted him and pulled him the rest of the way up, instructing in accented Spanish, “Climb on past me and go straight to the end, and then wait.”

"An undercover op went bad.  How'd you find the place?"

"Tracking device in the doll."

"Sweet.  Her dolly saved her life."  He knelt down next to Margarita, who was glaring up at Trouble suspiciously.

“Why should I trust him?"  She hugged the doll tighter. 

“He saved my life once, and if he meant to hurt you, he’d come in through the front door.”

She sighed dramatically, but let him hoist her up, scurrying past Trouble into the air shaft. 

“I don’t suppose you have a rope or something?  I don’t think I can jump that high.”

A snort and a second later, and the end of a rope ladder was hitting his head.  “I planned for a solo operation.”  Trouble said softly.  “Climb quickly; it’s not the strongest.”

He followed the advice, pulling the rope up behind himself and replacing the cover and then crawling down the tight air vent.  When they reached the corner, the twins went on to the left single file and Francisco tried to follow their rescuer.  ‘Tried’ being the key word there. 

“Dude, my shoulders won’t fit!”  He whispered, backing into the first vent.  “Like, I think they would if I had just, like, an inch more clearance.”

Trouble sighed, groping around his pockets and mumbling about ‘damn Neanderthal jocks’.  “Okay,  on my left boot.  Press the first and last studs on the outside.” 

Francisco obeyed, snorting when the heel snapped open.  Out fell a knife, a roll of medical gauze, a handful of condoms and three small packets of lube. 

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Just- if you take off your shirt and grease up your shoulders, you should fit.  Grab what you need and put my boot back together, please.  Your rescue is a side-effect and if you prevent me from finishing this job, you won’t be happy.”

He followed orders, saying, “Hey, hey, I’m cooperating!”

“Just hurry.”  And with that, Trouble scurried down the shaft.  He followed as soon as he could, making a mental note to _never_ share this part of the story- it was too embarrassing.  They reached a vent to the outside, one which had the cover roughly removed with bolt cutters and duck taped back in place to prevent raising alarms.  They crawled out onto the floor, and then he and Trouble did a duck-and-dash around the perimeter to the edge of the property line, avoiding the scarce cameras and the many guards, each of them with a kid piggybacking.  They made it to a dusty pickup a mile away without detection and drove for an hour to a bunker in the middle of the desert, at which point Trouble tapped a long and complicated rhythm onto the reinforced steel door.   A minute later, it eased open with a hiss of hydraulics, and the kids ran forward into their father’s arms. 

Once they were safely inside, the general had a hushed conversation with Trouble before offering them both a room for the night and safe passage out of the country.  Francisco tried declining, and his…friend?  Occasional rescuer?  Just rolled his eyes.  “Trust me, if you try to leave on your own, you’ll get recaptured and lose the other half of your fingernails before giving up this safe house, and probably your own national security.  It’s in everyone’s best interests for you to accept the free trip to San Diego.”

In the end, Margarita wanted him to help choose material for a new dress for her doll, and you just can’t say ‘no’ to those adorable eyes.  He almost cried when the general brought out actual bandages for his hand and a bottle of Ibuprophen 8s.  They sat around a folding table to eat a huge, delicious dinner, where he’d eaten fourths and fifths of everything, and the twin’s mother kept on refilling his plate and thanking him and kissing his cheek.  Then, he and Trouble were shuffled into a spare room.  There wasn’t much other than a twin bed, a dresser, and a cabinet of ammunition, but it was a bed after two weeks on concrete.  The two of them stripped to boxers and crawled in, falling asleep quickly. 

He woke up to throbbing fingers at one in the morning.  Trouble went scrounging for the bottle of pills and talked him back to sleep, telling Francisco stories he’d only half-remember about high school boyfriends, serenading GAP employees and something about baby penguins and sex sharks, about girls with pink hair, pretending to be straight and singing mash-ups in ridiculous costumes, stories about a girl everyone called stupid making it onto the New York Times Bestseller page and having tea with the Queen of England.  He was pretty sure at least some of the stories were true. 

(If they woke up again at quarter to six, hard and not-quite-alert, and kissing lazily and rubbing against each other until they both came in a rush of _safewarmpleasure_  before falling back asleep, they definitely did _not_ talk about it in the morning.  It was a combination of sleep deprivation and _thank-fuck-we’re-alive;_ a natural reaction to sleeping in the same bed with someone really hot, but it didn’t mean anything.  Trouble was clearly still in love with that high school boyfriend of his and Francisco wasn’t about to get his heart broken like that.  Not that he had any regrets.  None at all.  The thief/occasional hero was hot and funny and compassionate, and that was the best kind of friends-with-benefits to have.)

Twenty four hours after a hyper Margarita (with the doll newly clad in a clean dress of turquoise cotton) woke them for fresh tortillas for breakfast, Francisco was back at Homeland Security for the debriefing of a lifetime and Trouble was nothing more than a memory and a number written in Sharpie on his arm. 


	8. Plans

It was like the start of ten walks-into-a-bar jokes stacked on top of each other.  There was a rabbi, a nun, and a Buddhist monk.  Democrats, Republicans, and an independent congressman, a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker (honestly, who even makes candlesticks anymore?)  A chef, a Recon Marine, a Navy SEAL, representatives from all of the major domestic gangs and the Hawaiian branch of the Yakuza.  She saw a school teacher, a janitor, a cluster of businessmen in suits., and Miss Texas 2013.  There were young people and a couple of octogenarians.  On one wall of the warehouse building, a projector showed a grid of webcam screens, coming online one at a time.  Lupe saw a British CEO, a Chinese official, a member of the Russian military arguing about the X-Factor with somebody who had a Colombian flag on the wall behind him.  And...was that the King of Jordan?

She smiled tentatively at the young woman next to her.  “So, why are _you_ here?  He kept my daddy out of prison.”

The red-head smiled.  “He mentioned you!  Good cook, six siblings.  He had me track you down a few years ago, make sure you were in college.  Congrats on valedictorian, by the way.  I’m Porcelain’s answering service.  I got knocked up at fourteen and the ‘rents kicked me out; he got me into one of those boarding schools for pregnant chicks where you can give the baby up for adoption at the end of the year, and paid for another private school until I graduated, in exchange for managing his communications.  I’m at Berkeley now.  Physics major, with a minor in music.”

“Really?  What do you play?”  They bonded over their experiences in college orchestra and then college in general

At the top of the hour, the double doors at the other end burst open, and in walked her savior.  The room fell silent as he walked towards them.  He approached the crowd, looked up at the taller half of the group, and shrugged, flipping over a wooden crate to stand on.

“Hello, all.  Thank you all for getting here on such short notice, and for taking time away from your respective businesses and families.”  

“Why are we here?”  Came a voice from the crowd.  

“I’m glad you asked.”  He smiled in a way that reminded her of a shark.  “I’m taking down Cyrus Johansson, and his entire network, and I need your help.  Now, before you get all worked up- I want him gift-wrapped with a suitcase of evidence on the stairs of the FBI, not dead, so no one’s getting implicated for anything.”  The less-criminal side of the room sighed in relief.  “For those of you in...business, you’ll benefit by eliminating your competition.  The rest of you benefit by making the world a little safer.  Questions?”

Ron Freaking Paul of all people- she recognized him from the debates back in 2011- raised his hand like he  was in school.  “Why are you doing this, kid?”  She wondered what her friend had done for the Congressman, why _he_ was here.

The younger man turned to face him, cheerful face going stone-cold.  “Cyrus Johansson killed my father in cold blood.  The police gave up after two weeks.  It’s taken me eight years to get an opportunity, and I’m not passing it up.  Understood?”  He turned to the screen.  “Gentlemen, your majesties, if you’d like to assist, I’ve sent you a file with the appropriate times and dates and plans.  No need to confirm.  Best of luck.”  One by one, the boxes went black.  “For the rest of you- take a seat, I’ll pass out your assignments.  You help me with this, all debts are cleared.”

Twenty minutes later, Lupe shifted in her seat.  There weren’t many people left, and she still didn’t know why she was here, how she could help this master plan that she hadn’t even heard anything about.  She’d been a Creative Writing major(at Dartmouth) and was working on her second novel and playing her trumpet in a jazz band, five nights a week, to pay the bills.  She thought it highly ironic that, despite her high school band director’s warnings, the _music_ was paying her bills, and the college education wasn’t.

Finally, it was down to six- all big, burly men, except the girl she’d talked to earlier and herself.  And Prince Charming, but he was the leader.  He sat down on the crate, beckoning them to sit closer.  

****

_“Thank you for your patience.  They’ll all be doing the legwork- drying up resources, intel, clearning out operations across the country and around the world, covering our tracks and collecting evidence to make sure Johansson stays behind bars._

 

The O’Reilly Factor commented that it was an amazing show of bipartisanship: a bill passed on December first which scrapped large sections of the tax code, eliminating deductions and closing loopholes and tax shelters right and left.  In fact, once the law was completely in effect, the income tax form fit on one side of a postcard.  (Once it passed, the owner of TurboTax broke down in tears).

It managed to piss off nearly every special interest group, as it treated everyone equally, regardless of charitable giving, mortgages, or hybrid vehicles.  (Except the HRC- they praised the bill, as it eliminated some thirty-odd lines in the tax code that preferred straight couples over singles or gay couples.  Equal taxation under the law wasn’t nationalized gay marriage, but it was one step closer.) 

But even with the opponents of the law riled up, it passed in record time and popularity, because people were tired of the injustices of General Electric and other companies and certain millionaires paying nothing in taxes, just because favored politicians got them loopholes.  The Debt Clock watchers liked it , as no loopholes meant more income and therefore less debt; even drummers can do that math.  An IRS insider said the savings in printing costs and employees alone  would cut their budget by 80% once it was fully implemented.  No more schedule Bs or 1092As to process, making the input side simpler, error spotting and auditing easier, the website simpler, most of their auditors superfluous.

But no matter how much the analysts and comedians discussed it, they couldn’t figure out how Lieberman, Ron Paul, Darrell Issa, and Barbara Boxer actually wrote a simple, effective bill with such broad effect, without toning it down out of concern for their reelection chances.  Or killing each other.  That was the real miracle. 

(Kurt hated getting involved with politics.  But he wanted the rat scared, and threatening his money was a simple way to do that.  Without all his little loopholes, Johansson would have to resort to less legal, less safe places to store his ill-gotten gains, and those were much easier to scent out and destroy.  Since the law would apply to the next year's taxes, the new rules started applying January first, and Johansson would want it moved by then.  His eyes were in place, and police departments across the country started stumbling upon backroom banks and stashhouses a week later)

 

 

 

The word spread quickly, from San Francisco to Sacramento to Los Angeles and radiating out to every city, everyone in the oldest profession in the world.  It made its way to Miami two weeks after it started moving by word of mouth, from the most elite escorts to runaways on the street corners.  The message from Fancy was simple: Cyrus Johansson has wronged one of us.   We will not service him or any of his men, now or ever.  Everyone either owed their life or freedom or health to Fancy, or knew someone who did.  They stood with their patron saint, strong together.

 

 

She was the woman to talk to about hard-to-find weapons for the Southeast.  In fact, her closest competition on the same level was based in Washington State, so she had the majority share of weapons trade in the continental USA.  When she managed to make it to mass- which, admittedly, was not that often- she always sent up a prayer of gratitude to the Prom Queen, because without her, she’d have nothing.  She’d never actually met the Queen in person, but her lover had contacted the Queen when she’d been arrested seven years ago, when she was just starting to expand her stateside business.  She’d been released before they even formally pressed charges, and  never heard from the Queen again.  Until today. 

She held the phone to her ear, sitting down at her kitchen table in shock.  That voice sounded just like she remembered.  “Can- can I help you?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”  The Queen’s voice was cautious.

“Anything.  I tried to call to thank you, but the line was already down.”

“That was intentional.”  She said, a smile in her voice.  “Sometime between now and Christmas, Cyrus Johansson will contact you, directly or indirectly, about a business matter.  He’s going to have some problems in requisitions, and have no choice but to go through you.”

“What do you need me to do?” 

“Don’t sell to him.  Refuse flatly, but if repercussions are a problem, stall.  I understand needing to protect a reputation.”

She nodded.  Johansson was big, and powerful, but he was a prick, so if one of Prom Queen’s clients intended to have him defenseless, she didn’t really mind.  As long as it didn’t hurt business for the future.  “This going to bite me in ass?”

The Queen laughed.  “After Boxing Day, he’ll be completely irrelevant.  And all those in a position to fill the power vacuum are already regular clients of yours, so if anything, your business will improve.”

“Well, then, it’s been a pleasure.  And thank you.”

“No, thank _you.”_  

 

The NYPD was having a good year.  A run-of-the-mill druggie had turned out to have information on not only his supplier, but his supplier’s entire network.  A network that stretched across the country and into Canada.  Departments were shutting down warehouses, backroom banks, distribution networks, processing plants and importers, and it was all thanks to a crackhead with eidetic memory and a higher tolerance than what his supplier thought.

 

 

_But we-” He gestured to the loose ring of folding chairs.  “We’re going after the man himself.  None of what they’re doing matters if we don’t succeed.  So let’s go over my plan, and please spot any holes.  To avoid confusion, you can call me Kurt, and introduce your selves by name or codename or not.  It’s to your discretion, but the eight of us are fairly trustworthy.  Let’s begin.”_

Master Chief Walker called him up on the second day of leave. 

“Klick, you doing anything this weekend?”

Evan shrugged.  “Nah, not much.  Me and ‘Gale and our good friend Jose Cuervo were going to watch some football, but he found a friend last night.  Probably won’t resurface ‘till Wednesday.”

Walker made a noncommittal grunt.  “Remember that time with the kids, back when we were stationed at Coronado?”

That got him to sit up straight.  “How could I forget?  I take it the dude’s calling in his favor?”

“Yep.  Wanted at least two of us, preferably at least one sniper-“

“So that’s why you called me first.”

“Yep.  Meeting tomorrow night in the boondocks of New York, then he asked about Christmas Day availability.  I figured, you’re the resident Jew-“

“Damn straight”

“-and I don’t really celebrate.  All the rest have family.  You up for it?”

Evan laughed.  “Chief, we’re not going wheels up again ‘till _February._   I am so bored, I might take up knitting or some shit.”

“We wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?   I’ll pick you up, 1800.  Bring coffee, I’ll get junk food.”

“Can I bring some music?  If I have to listen to Christmas carols for two hours, there _will_ be casualties.”

“As long as it’s none of that teenybopper stuff you pretend isn’t on your ipod, Klick.”

“Oh, put a sock in it.  Respectfully.  Master Chief.”

 

 

 

“Fucking rookies.”  He muttered as he limped up the stairs to his apartment, leaning heavily on the banister.  “Couldn’t spot a bomb if it was gift-wrapped in front of them.  _The room is clear_ , my ass.”  He grumbled as he keyed the door open.  The light at the end of the hall was on, and he immediately tensed, hand going to his holster as he shuffled down the hallway.  Firearm ready, he opened the door to his bedroom and laughed, reholstering his gun and leaning on the doorframe.  Trouble was curled up in his bed, fully dressed on top of the comforter, looking adorably innocent in sleep.  Francisco limped over to the bed, tugging the top blanket out from under his unexpected guest and toeing off his shoes.  He dropped his jacket and holster and jeans on the floor and flopped on his bed, pulling the heavy blanket up over himself, and Trouble.  Less than a minute after he stole a pillow, he was asleep.

He awoke the next morning to the sound of someone singing _My Favorite Things_ in another room.  He yawned and  sat up, reaching to the floor to find the bottle of pain pills in the pocket of his jeans.  Swallowing one dry, he pushed himself up out of bed and walked along the edge of the room to the door, finding his way to the kitchen with lots of help from his friend, the wall.  He sat down at his kitchen table with a heavy sigh of relief and watched bemusedly as Trouble flipped pancakes onto a plate.  Two minutes later, he had both coffee and orange juice in front of him and a plate with sausage and eggs next to some pancakes that looked whole wheat.  He glanced inquisitively at Trouble, who raised an eyebrow in return. 

“It’s better for you.  Eat your pancakes.”

The Homeland Security agent rolled his eyes.  “Sir, yes, sir.”  He said with a grin, but complied.  They were pretty good, actually, rich in flavor.  “So, what are you doing here?  I’m not even going to ask how you got into my apartment, as I am too damn tired to arrest you, but…”

Trouble shrugged, ducking his head with a blush and focusing on cutting his pancakes.  “I was, er, in the area after a job night before last.  I was headed for a hotel when I heard you exploded yourself, congratulations on that, by the way, and thought I’d stop by.  See if you were still breathing and all.”

“And the nap?”

“I underestimated how long the hospital would keep you, and I’d been up for seventy-two hours.”  Trouble gripped his coffee cup and stared at the wall.  “It was…it was bad, okay?”

Francisco yawned again before focusing his eyes back on Trouble.   “It the kind of bad day you can talk about, or the kind that I need plausible deniability for?  I don’t know exactly what you do…”

“Oh, a little this, a little that.”

He carried on as if the interruption hadn’t occurred.  “But I can guess pretty easily that it’s not entirely legal.  Still, you can talk to me, you know that, right?”

Trouble laughed.  “Yes, dear.  I’d take to your couch and talk about my _feelings_ , but your day sounds _much_ more interesting.”

“Divert much?”  Francisco grumbled.  “There was a tip about a purchase of suspicious amounts of fertilizer.  My new partner _said_ the room was clear.  Completely clear and safe, so I start looking for trace evidence and step on a small IED.  Small, meaning it took out a chunk of leg and most of the skin, but I didn’t lose the foot, so I count that as a win.  Probably some kid with an internet connection and a grudge and cheap materials, but I’ll have to let the rest of the team figure it out.  As they’re making me stay home.”

Trouble smiled.  “Good thing I’m here to distract you, then!  Do you have Monopoly?”

“No, but I have _Settlers of Catan_ and all the expansion sets.  Want to experience utter defeat with your pancakes?”

“Oh, it is _on._   Where’s the box?”

 

The story tumbled out in the middle of the night.   “It was false advertising.  Thought it was a routine pull-kid-off-the-streets job, teenager who’d rather work the red lights than deal with parents.  They don’t want to go back, I make sure they’re clean and sober and have a place to stay, but usually they jump at the hope of a free ride back to Small Town, Alabama.  This one was different, though.  I start digging and there’s no word of her on the street, and nothing adds up right.  Long story short, I find her in a shipping crate, bound for overseas with forty-three other kids, none of them older than fifteen and most of them eleven and twelve.  Some of them pregnant.”  He shuddered.  “All of them injured and most of them brutalized and so shell-shocked, I doubt they’ll ever be the same.  Dropped them at a clinic and bailed.  Half of them saw my face and could identify me, if they wanted to.  I doubt they will, but it’s better safe than sorry.”  He took another deep breath, and burrowed in closer under the blankets.  “So, you needed a nursemaid, I needed a place to rest.”  _And not just physically, either_ was the unspoken addendum.  “It works.”

Francisco ran a thumb under the sleeve of his friend’s worn t-shirt.   **LIKES BOYS,** it said.  He could find out the details from the local cops, but Trouble clearly wanted distraction, not conversation.  And then the first part of his confession clicked.  “Wait, so those rumors about the Hooker’s Saint are _real?_  I just thought it was too much crack, not enough solid food.  And it’s _you?!_ ”




That earned him a punch to the sternum.  “Shut up, you.”

He shook his head and chuckled, crooning.  “Fancy, here’s your one chance, don’t let me down!”

Trouble’s smile broke out.  “Quit it!”  Another poke to his chest, but that didn’t stop his singing.  “I mean it!”

Francisco grinned and waggled his eyebrows.  “Make me.” 

And _then_ , well, his mouth was otherwise occupied, and he didn’t talk any more.  Mission complete, no more riling necessary. 

 

Francisco woke up the next morning, worn out (in all the good ways) with the bottle of pills and a glass of water on the nightstand.  There was no sign of Trouble except the plate of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls on the kitchen counter and a dirty coffee mug in the sink.  Then, there was no word until the next year, when a  package arrived the day before Thanksgiving.  The handwriting on the envelope looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it.  He opened it carefully, and out came a typed letter. 

> Friend of Mine,
> 
> It’s been a while, but I could use your assistance in a project of mine.  You’ll like the results.  If you’d like to know, give me a call at (858) 555-4937.  We can catch up over tortillas.
> 
> -Trouble

He grinned and laughed softly, waving off the curious glances of the other agents.  He was _so_ there, because life was never boring with Trouble.

 

 

_“Lupe, you’re going undercover.  Johansson’s a racist asshole, he’ll see the color of your skin and assume you don’t speak a word of English and that plays right into my hands.  One of his maids quit today; her agency is going to send you in, in her place.”  He tossed her an envelope.  “ID, apartment keys, work papers.  You can write your own back-story if necessary.  You’re mostly for information, but the current maid brings the guards coffee every evening.  Continue that pattern, then on Christmas night, you’re going to spike their drinks with sleeping pills.  This should only be dangerous if they catch you, which they shouldn’t, because his security is not particularly intelligent.  Cyrus gets his way through threats and brute force and money, not through hiring the best.”_

_She nodded, mind whirling as the others quizzed Kurt on the specifics of his plan._

 

Emma leaned back in her desk chair and switched the nail file to her left hand.  “So, you got everyone, boss?”

Kurt sounded relaxed when he spoke.  “Yes, I got the last confirmation this morning.  Francisco’s in.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you sound all chill.  He doing okay?”  It was so easy to tease him.

“We just had dinner.”  He said defensively.  “And yes, he’s doing well.  Looks healthy.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“You sure you’re okay with actually getting involved in this?  It’s actual danger, not just answering my phones, and-“

“And I’m far too invested in taking this bastard down to back out now, dude.  But I need a cool code name, or the deal’s off.”

Kurt laughed.  “Inspector Gadget?”

“Too long.  I think I want Gizmo.”

“Fitting, California girl.  See you on Saturday.”

“Later, boss.  Stay safe.”


	9. One a.m.

**Purim, 2020**

She was flipping through the red plaid cookbook when her phone buzzed.  She answered it without looking.  "Cello!"

"Well, good evening, Brittany!  How are you doing?"  Kurt said warmly.

She laughed and turned another page.  "It's actually morning, here!  Very, very early morning!  One in the morning!  But it's okay, because 'Tana's pulling an all-nighter for this new case of hers, and I was trying to find her something to make as a midnight snack.  Only, I've been looking since midnight and I can't find the perfect thing to make."

Her friend chuckled.  "Well, I just had the most amazing kreplatch at this Purim feast.  I was passing through Israel and got lured in by the promise of costumes and lots of alcohol, at it was actually quite fun.  Jews know how to party."

"Except Rachel."  Brittany modified.  "But she's a special snowflake.  Where are you heading next?"

Kurt sighed.  "I've got nothing in the queue, so I thought I'd skip up to England.  Mosey around the U.K. for a while."

"Good tea, hot men in kilts, sounds like a fabulous idea."  Brittany idly flipped another page.  "Talk next week?  I'll tell you how the Chang squared baby shower goes.  I predict that Santana will win all the games without even trying, Rachel will gift ugly clothes and a CD of herself singing lullabies, and Finn and Puck will give her that handmade wooden cradle they've been working on ever since they found out.  Not that I went snooping around Noah's apartment, or anything."

"No, of course not."  Kurt giggled.  "Make sure you look suitably surprised."

"Sugar, I am the _queen_ of looking surprised.  And confused.  I got that one down, too."

"I concede, you are the queen of all you see.  Later!"

 

Brittany bid him adieu (which was her new favorite word) and stared at the cookbook for another second before dialing Puck's number and hopping up on the counter.

"Pierce, it is past one in the morning.  Unless you're calling for phone sex-"

"I'm pretty sure that I'd have to use Speakerphone and have 'Tana in the room for that, now that we're married, Noah."  She let him down gently.  He didn't always think straight when he was tired.  She _never_ thought straight when she was tired, because usually sleepy meant bedtime, which meant sexytimes with Santana.  So definitely no straight thinking there.   "But that's not why I'm calling.  Kurt just called me from Jerusalem, and he says there's some kind of Jewish party thing with costumes going on there-"

"It's called Purim."

"That was it!  Anyway, he mentioned something called crepalach, or something like that, and I thought, Puck would know how to make that!  'Cause now I want to try it."  She leaned back against the cabinets and kicked her feet.

She could practically hear Puck rolling his eyes across the city.  She had the best superpowers.  "Okay, fine, but you have to bring me some leftovers tomorrow.   It's called kreplatch, with a k, and we eat it at Hanukkah, too.  You have some kind of ground beef or chicken?"

"Yep!"

"All right.  We're going to start that cooking on low, with an onion and some spices, and then we'll make the dough for the wrappers while it's cooking.  Here's what you do…"

 

 

Once he'd _finally_ gotten off the phone with Brittany, Noah stood up and shook out his legs with a yawn.  The edge of the bathtub wasn't really comfortable, but it was better than sitting on the toilet for twenty minutes on the phone.  He plugged in his charger and hit the light, following the light of the alarm clock back to his bed, nearly tripping over a boot. 

He crawled in, stealing a pillow back and closing his eyes.

"It morning?"  A foot brushed at his.

Noah yawned again, snuggling closer.  Not that he’d ever admit to it.  "Half past one.  Brittany was having a snack crisis."

"Our friends are fucking bizarre, Puck."  




He laughed.  "Don't I know it, Dave.  Don't I know it."

 


	10. An interlude of letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted two minutes after chapter nine, so make sure you read that one, as well. They're very closely linked.

**September, 2020**

 

_So sick of books, oh, they like the punk and the metal bands_

_When the buzzer rings, whoa ay oh, they're walkin' like an Egyptian_

Noah Puckerman sang to himself and stretched to wipe the last traces of the quadratic formula off the whiteboard.  With a grin, waved goodbye to Leticia, the last of the lingerers, before sitting down at his desk to check the lesson plans for Geo/Trig next period.  Now, where was the lesson book?  He flipped through the mountain on his desk- graded papers, homework, tests from last week, envelope, lesson book!  Wait, what was that envelope?  He didn't put it there.  _Oh, God, please not another love letter from student with a crush_.  He ripped it open, and out dropped two tickets to a concert.  _The_ concert, the big music fest next month.  He'd been whining all over Facebook about how he couldn't afford even the cheap seats on a teacher's salary.  None of his friends could afford these, either.  

He picked his jaw up and silently reached into the envelope, pulling out a slip of paper scizzored between his fingers. 

> I find it highly ironic that the boy who skipped four years of math classes now teaches it, but you always did like destroying preconceptions, didn't you? You're a good teacher.  Enjoy the concert- after teaching middle school in the inner city for three years, you deserve the treat. 
> 
> Happy belated birthday,
> 
> K




Puck grinned and shook his head.  Suddenly Britt's drunken ramblings over the years(and sober ramblings) made a hell of a lot more sense.  And since she was in the loop...

As the next class trickled in, jostling and gossiping, he dialed her number.  "Hey, you know that big festival next month?  I scored some tickets.  You want to come with?  I hear the Indigo Girls are playing?  Sweet.  Okay, tell Kurt 'thanks' the next time you talk to him. Talk soon."  He smiled fondly.  Brittany was on her thirty-sixth hour without sleep, because she'd gotten a brainwave about the plot of her new novel.  Britt on a caffeine buzz was always fun, but her shriek at the mention of 'Indigo Girls' reached an octave only known by Rachel at the end of  Walking on Sunshine.  Youch.

 

 

**Thanksgiving**

> To my very special agent David Karofsky,
> 
> Congratulations on your promotion.  You've surpassed my expectations and worst insults- though 'assistant manager at a rendering plant' wasn't very insulting to begin with.  I'm trusting you with this information, because I trust you with my life.  Which is ironic, considering that you once threatened it.
> 
> I can't disclose much, but if you come to the enclosed address at 7pm on December 25th and turn on the radio without changing the channel, you'll get quite a lovely yuletide gift.  I suggest you bring along some sort of recording device with you, but feel free to disregard my advice.
> 
> You'll know what to do from there.
> 
> Merry Christmas,
> 
> Your Queen

 

He didn't tell his team or his supervisor.  He _did_ call Santana, who swore at him in Spanish and rushed over and slapped him upside the head and made a copy of the letter.

Then she stared at her copy and her voice got real soft. 

"So, that confirms it, then.  We were right, he's alive."  She let out a ragged breath and leaned against the desk.

"Yeah, that's definitely him."

"But are we telling The Man?"  Her voice left no room for quibbling.

"What if he's in trouble?  What if he's on the run?  What if he's in danger, and by reporting this, we increase that?  No, I'll trust his judgement for now.  Nothing official."

Santana sighed.  "Okay, call me as soon as the whatever-it-is, and God, way to be dramatic, Hummel- goes down, and I'll start the paperwork.  And you know there'll be some.  You want me to call Q over, have her on standby in case you don't want to go to the hospital?"

"Damn, I didn't even think of that."  he looked up at the ceiling, leaning back against his file cabinet.  "Yeah, we'd better.  Just in case."  He redirected his gaze to the copied letter in his hand.  _Hummel, what happened to you?_


	11. Christmas Day

_Johansson has caught wind of my existence, and has invited The Prom Queen to Christmas dinner to discuss a gig.  I will be attending.  Yes, I’ll be attending as a woman._

 

Evan was in his boxers on the hotel bed, strapping knives on various parts of his body as Kurt struggled into a tight spandex slip.  The kind his _mom_ wore.  He couldn't help the chuckle that slipped out.  

Kurt blushed.  “Shut up.  I refuse to tuck, so this is a necessary evil of compromise.  Should problems...arise, it won’t blow my cover.  And it fakes out enough curves that I can pass.”

Evan shook in silent laughter under Kurt’s cutting glare, pulling up stockings to clip to...something under the slip.  He had no idea how women’s fashion worked, especially for a dude.  

The younger man threw a balled-up pair of socks at his head.  “Honestly, tell me _you’ve_ never come out of a firefight with a boner, and then you can laugh.”  He turned to the suitcase, pulling out a bunch of fabric and sauntering into the bathroom.   

Evan froze.  “Damn.  And a point for Kurt!”  He called through the open door, putting on his own (black) shirt.  He was buttoning up his fly when Kurt came out of the bathroom.  He wolf-whistled.  

“Dude, if I hadn’t just seen you, I would swear you were a chick.”  

Kurt looked up from adjusting his shoes.  “That is rather the point.”  He bent back down, fastening the strap of his other high-heeled shoe.  

Evan shook his head to clear it.  _Not a girl, not a girl._ “You need a zip?”

“Yes, please. ”  He turned around as Evan zipped up the blue ball gown.  “I’m glad I was already growing my hair out a bit; it’s long enough that I can pull off the short pixie effect while still looking feminine.  Wigs throw my balance off, and it’s bad enough in these shoes.”  Kurt sighed.  “Okay, go get dressed.  We move out in twenty.”  He grabbed a case and made for the bathroom just as there was a knock on the door.

“I come bearing electronics.” Master Chief Walker said, cradling a collection of wires in his hands.  “Here, Klick, have a headset.”  Evan helped the other SEAL disentangle the cords until Porcelain wandered back out of the bathroom.  “I’ve got three for you, Kurt.  One sticky ear phone- the invisible kind, one transmission-only wire, and a standard radio.”

“Thanks.  You all set?” 

“Oh, yeah, your Homeland Security friend acquired us some beautiful weapons.”  At Kurt’s cutting glance he amended.  “Not that we’ll be using them, of course.  We’re fully trained to incapacitate men while unarmed without killing them.  Even though C4 is much more fun.”

“If everything works out right, you shouldn’t have to incapacitate _anyone_.  Loki will be doing most of that.  It’s just a precaution.”

“Sir, yes, sir.  Or should I say, yes ma’am?”

It was hilarious to see Walker, a pretty big dude _and_ a Master Chief, crumbling when a skinny guy in a dress glared at him. 

 

**Three days earlier**

Puck worried his lip as he stared at his phone.  He didn’t know how this would go over- they weren’t really at the point where it was a _thing,_ just a thing that happened when they were both in the same city for a night or two, you know, better than an empty hotel room or a stranger who might give you some strange disease or steal your wallet.  The clean underwear Dave kept in Puck’s drawer were purely for convenience, because Puck was perfectly fine lending a t-shirt or clean jeans after one of Dave’s cases, but sharing boxers was just too much.

Their little _whatever_ started last year after the Chang Squared Wedding of Awesome (Seriously, their combined wedding shower was _paintball_.  Instead of some tasteless cake, they had five different kinds of brownies.  Tina’s dress was formal and long, but had a black sash and panels of bright red satin that appeared whenever she twirled around.  She’d never say where she got it, but since finding out that Kurt was lurking around somewhere, Puck had his suspicions.   Best wedding ever.)

What was he thinking about?  Oh, yeah.  So, he’d had a _lot_ of booze at the reception, and so he flirted with all the bridesmaids, but they were all either lesbians or married or both, so he struck out.  Then he saw Karofsky looking all mopey by the punch bowl.  According to Santana, Firefighter Boyfriend had broken up with him, like, the night before.  Puck wandered over to commiserate, and an hour later, they were making out in the elevator on the way up to his hotel room.  Because they were both hot and alone and weddings _sucked_ when you were single and everyone else was all, like, “love is awesome!”

It was hot, and in the morning they shrugged and went their separate ways.  Until Puck was in D.C. for a conference on teaching methods, and ‘crashing on Karofsky’s couch’ turned into ‘screwing in Karofsky’s bed’ and it just…wasn’t a big deal.  So when Dave got loaned out to the New York office for some case, they didn’t bother with the pretense of the couch, because why bother?  They were grown men and who the fuck cared if they hooked up sometimes?   But it was never anything more than that.  They didn’t _send flowers_ or make _arrangements_ or have an _anniversary_ , because it wasn’t like that.

They still saw other people, well, when they had time- Puck went on a date three months ago with this English teacher from his school, but bailed with a “family emergency” thirty minutes in because she had the personality of Rachel, day of a competition, the kind where a lead singer is sick and your setlist gets stolen and there’s ex-boyfriend drama, only _more batshit._   And Karofsky, well, he barely had time to shower most days, he’d whine to Noah, “I don’t have time for any of that dating bullshit.”




Their thing wasn’t _dating,_ and so Puck didn’t know if inviting Karofsky up for a weekend was kosher or not.  But he wasn’t doing anyone any good thinking about it, so he dialed the number and waited for Karofsky to pick up. 

“What’s up?”  He heard the sound of chewing and then swallowing. 

“Well, um.”  Puck took a breath.  _You’re the biggest badass on the Eastern Seaboard, you can do this._  “Got any plans for Christmas?  I was thinking, you’ve got to have the day off, ‘cause even FBI agents get Christmas off, and I can show you how Jews celebrate.  Namely, a Die Hard marathon and Chinese food.”

“Sounds awesome.  But, oh, shit.”  Dave took a deep breath.  “I’ve got something else going on.  Christmas night.  At seven.” 

Puck stopped pacing.  “Wait, _what?_ Something else going on?  What is with this vagueness b.s.?”  Oh, hey, that rhymed!  Maybe he could put it in a song.  _Focus,_ Puckerman.

Dave coughed.  “I can’t exactly tell you?   Yeah.  I can’t say. What’s going on.”




Puck raised his eyebrows in confusion.  “Can you tell me if I’m _wrong?_ ”

Heavy sigh.  “Yeah, okay, I can do that.”

“Well, if you had a hot date, it wouldn’t be a secret, ‘cause that’s stupid.  You’d tell me, and share all the details later.  If it was work, you’d just say, and we don’t really have that many other secret-type things.  Lima, Ohio, is pretty damn boring, and I’d know if you were on drugs or something stupid like that.  The only other mystery I can think of is _what the fuck happened to Kurt Hummel-_ ”

Dave gasped.  And then tried clearing his throat to cover.  Well, _that_ hit a nerve.

“Dude, caught you there!  It _totally_ has something to do with Hummel, doesn’t it?”

“No comment.”

“Which is totally a ‘yes’, by the way, I _do_ know how to speak Davidese by now.  So you’re meeting Kurt for some mysterious purpose on Christmas night, probably something that involves your gun and the legal right to arrest people or he’d call someone else…”

“It was a letter, but, um.  Yeah.  You’re right on the rest of it.  And you don’t sound very surprised.”

“He sent me tickets to that music fest in September. The one I took Brittany to?”

“Oh.  I see.  I got a letter the week of Thanksgiving.  So.  Um.  Yeah.  That’s where I’ll be on Christmas.”

Now it was Puck’s turn for the heavy sigh.  “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.  You’re going to get your ass up here on Christmas _Eve,_ you’re bringing lots of ice cream for botching my plans, and we’ll have the marathon Christmas Eve and through the morning, until you have to go.  Where’re you meeting?”

“Um, there’s an address in upstate New York?”

“So you were already headed this way.  Awesome.  I’ll see you, what, four-ish, Christmas Eve?”

“Sure, man.  It’s cool.”

Puck thought, _You know, planning some date like this has already ruined my casual status in this.  Might as well go for the full deal._ He let his voice drop, cranking up the sex to eleven, just like he used to, back in the days of Cheerios and Cougars.  “I’ll see you then.  And David?”

“Yeah?”

“You won’t be sleeping on the couch.”  He hung up with a smirk.

 

 

**Christmas Day**

The channel came alive at 6:45.  He finished chewing his bite of chow mien while he stuck the chopstick back in the box and set it in the passenger seat, shifting a bit to get more comfortable.

"Testing, one two three. Everyone on?  Okay, AT-AT?."

"Loud 'n clear"

"Prom Queen?"

"Right there with you."  His voice- so unique.  It was richer, but still just as high as always.

"Gizmo, that's me, and…Klick?"

"All good on my side!"

"Loki?" 

"Si, si"

“Oakland, AT, get us a read on the perimeter, and please, no explosions yet.”

“Aww, girl, why you gotta ruin all my fun?”

“Because she likes to torture you, sweetcheeks.”  Kurt drawled.  “What’s the word on the show?”

Gizmo laughed.  “The California A.G. emailed New York’s, giving credit to the big man up north, as it _is_ Christmas, the governor of New Mexico joked to a senior staffer that with this influx of prisoners, they might actually get the border wall finished in the next year.  400 new related arrests just today, across the country.  Big Cahuna’s two-eye-see called the boss in a panic because his mole in Kansas City says they have hard evidence on him.”

“So he’s _definitely_ in need of my services.”  Kurt concluded.

“More today than yesterday.”  ‘Gizmo’ sang.  “Oh, and there’s been a lack of girls on his usual street corners, and his unusual street corners, and none of Fancy’s classier girls are answering his calls, either.  So he’s desperate and horny to boot.  And there’s been buzz about his wife, but no dice as of yet.”

“Lovely.  I’m going to turn off my headset and check the other wire.”

“Do I even want to know where you put it?”

A softer but still perfectly audible voice came back.  “You really don’t.”

Oakland came back online.  “Looks legit, only his standard thugs, and half of them are gone.”

“Do we-”

“Already checked, home with their families.”  Gizmo reassured.

“Perfect.  I’d hoped, Christmas day.  Okay, I’m going in.   _Always_ wanted to say that.  Radio silence unless absolutely necessary.  Let’s not attract attention.”

“Copy that.”

For the next few moments there was no sound except the clicking of heels and opening ad closing of doors.  Then a knock, and opening, and “You look fantastic, darling!  Elizabeth, right?”

“To my colleagues, yes.  But _you_ can call me Liz.”  He laid the charm on thick.

The smarmy voice returned- that was _definitely_ Cyrus Johansson- and Dave felt a shiver of fear for Kurt.

“Well, then, may I escort you to dinner?”

“I’d be delighted, my fine sir.”

Dave had seen Johansson’s file while he was investigating one of his mid-level traffickers last week.  The guy was suspected of _everything,_ but they’d never had any solid evidence.  Not enough for an arrest to stick, anyway.  But lots of his mid-level flunkies had found themselves behind bars in the last month, and not just in D.C., either.

He was starting to get the feeling that Kurt had something to do with that.  Dave took a sip from his bottle of Diet Coke and shifted in his seat again. 

After table-talk and sickening levels of flirting, Lizzie cleared ‘her’ throat.  “So, you didn’t invite me here for my scintillating conversation, though, did you?  You look drawn.  Tired.  Little wrinkles, right there.”

“Is it truly that bad?”

“You, surely, know better than I.  But my work is the...hmmm, alleviation of worries, so tell me how I can make it better.”

”I’m told you could, hypothetically, fix a little paperwork problem with a certain department.”

“Oooh, I love dabbling in hypotheticals!  I would love to be your...administrative assistant, shall we say?  For the right incentive.  You know it’s such a hassle dealing with those three -letter-acronyms and for my trouble, well.” ‘Lizzie laughed, and sang brightly. “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

“Brilliant, gorgeous, and she sings?  Oh, you must sing me something?”

“Hmmm...may I?”  There was a brief silence and then shuffling sounds. 

A chord played on  a piano, and Kurt started singing _As Time Goes By._

Dave was awestruck for a moment.  He’d forgotten exactly how…well, _pretty_ Kurt’s voice was.  ‘Ethereal’ also seemed to fit. 

The last person he’d heard sing was Puck, during their midnight nap between rounds three and four.  Noah tended to make up little songs about whatever was running through his head, and he could still kind of hear Noah rumbling into his ear  “ _’Bout sex I’m never meek, but baby we both reek, so before another round, how ‘bout a shower, and then you can pound, into me for hours_ ”  And it got dirtier from there, which was equal parts hot and hilarious, but not exactly opera.

Kurt’s voice was, well, distracting enough that he basically jumped out of his skin when the passenger door opened.

His hand flew to the gun at his hip as a girl slid into the passenger seat, hands up.  “Hold your horses, cowboy.  I’m unarmed.”

Dave didn’t move his hand, but relaxed his posture and turned to face her more comfortably than just twisting his neck around.  “Who are you?”

She quirked an eyebrow.  “You can call me Loki, ‘cause my record’s clean and you’re a Fed.  Porcelain may trust you, but that doesn’t mean I do.”

The F.B.I. agent crossed his arms.  “And what, exactly, are you doing in my car, _Loki?_ ” 

“I have many missions, and just one of them mayhem.  No, wait, that’s my namesake.  I’m supposed to reassure you that Fancy knows what he’s doing, and tell you what the code means.  _Casablanca_ means they’re alone in the room.  Piano instead of a capella means that if Johansson’s got a weapon, he’s separated from it, for the time being.”

“Um, okay then?”  He supposed an operation run by Kurt _would_ have show tunes as code.  He turned back to the radio as the song ended, and the piano bench screeched as it was pushed back. 

“Come on, darling.  Share a dance with me, and tell me what you need.”  Kurt flirted.

“A tango?”

Kurt laughed.  “We only just _met_ , you rascal!”

A click and music turned on.

“That’s the cue, boys.”  ‘Gizmo’ called.  “Clear the building.   _Quietly._ ”

 ... _And there was that hooker in New Orleans.  She looked so pretty with my belt around her neck, and I couldn’t help myself..._

“Garage cleared.”

“Two in the entrance hall, snoring like babies.  Good work, Loki.”

“Back porch, too.”

_...and that’s how I stole the governor’s heirloom necklace._

_Oooh, tell me more..._

“We’ve got a perimeter, Giz.  How’s interior?”

“East wing clear.”

“Kitchen clear.”

_...and so I made it look like Frank did it..._

“First floor cleared.”

“Good.  Slow and steady, lads.  Prom King?  Approach from the south.  Oakland’s your contact man.”

Loki grinned and took the chow mein out of his hands.  “Get in there, then.  I’ll keep your food company.”

David crept around the back of the house, sticking to the bushes an stepping silently through the cracked screen door.  A skinny guy, tight jeans and a tighter black t-shirt, caught him in the back stair well.

“You her king?”  He jerked his head upstairs.

Dave nodded.

“Dance you turned down.”  

“Dancing Queen.”

“You’re good.” He patted Dave’s shoulder from the high step.  

The radio crackled.  “Second’s clear.”

“Okay, then, we’re moving on to the third floor, and then waiting.  Once jay-Jay stops running his mouth, we move.”

It took five efficient minutes, and then they waited.  It was only four minutes, but it felt like eternity until

_...Is that absolutely everything, darling?  I don’t want any little surprises, dear.  I charge extra for those”_

_“That’s everything.”_

_“Well, then, we can forget about business for a while, and just enjoy the music.  Care to waltz?”_

_“Why don’t you sing me one to dance to, instead?”_

“Get ready.”  Gizmo whispered in their ears.

“There aren’t _that_ many waltzes with lyrics, Cyrus.”

“You know the Tennessee?  My wife left me for my best friend last month, and I could use some comfort.”

“Well.”  Kurt coughed daintily, twice. “I’ll have to see if I remember the words.”

“Set.” AT-AT’s bass rumbled.  “Cue should be in the verse, if I know the Queen.”  Dave wondered idly how he’d gotten tagged with that moniker as he stood at the door next to ‘Oakland’, hand on the doorknob.  .  

_I remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz_

_'cause I know just how much I have lost_

_Yes I lost my little darlin' the night they were playin'_

_That beautiful Tennessee Waltz_

_I was waltzin’, with my darlin, to the Tennessee Waltz_

_when an old friend I happened to see_

_I introduced him to my darlin’_

_And while they were dancing.._

‘Liz’ twirled under his arm

_That rascal stole my darlin’ from from me_

He twirled out as he sang the last line, leaving Johansson’s back to the door.  The door where David burst through, tackling Johansson as he shouted “FBI!”  Kurt stepped back, flopping into a chair and crossing his arms, sitting...well, not like a lady at all.  And that _dress._  

The criminal was shouting.  “Woman, you set me up!  You!”  He burst out a stream of expletives that weren’t very creative at all.

Kurt sighed and stood back up, sauntering over to where a cuffed (hands and feet) Johansson was being yanked up by Karofsky.  

“For starters, not a woman..  and if you talk about women like that, no wonder your wife left you.  Douche.”

“But why?  I’ve never done anything you!”

Kurt glared into his eyes, and Dave spent a moment being grateful that anger wasn’t directed at him.  “You killed my father.”

 

 

Oakland groaned in his ear.  “No Inigo Montoya, Trouble?”

Kurt laughed as David read Jo-Jo his rights, skirting past him to the door.  “He doesn’t deserve to die.  If I’m going to Princess Bride him, I’d much prefer ‘to the pain’, but I’ll accept maximum security.”

“That’s fantastic, Fancy, but you guys need to scram.”  Dave said.  “I need to call in backup and the Crime Scene  Unit and process that recording and if you don’t want to go on the record as being here, get lost.  And, er, you need to wipe any prints of the piano and/or dinnerware?”

Kurt scoffed as he sprinted down the back staircase.  “Sweetie, my gloves go past my elbows.”

“Right.  Okay.  Great.  Meet me at Satan’s?”

“I’ll see you there.  Oak, can you stick around to back him up?  Just in case?”

“No problema, Trouble.”

“I’m leaving the full tape in your car, Mr. King.  And Porce, _so_ getting that story out of you later.”  Loki chirped.  “Later, boys!”

“Great.  Everybody, ditch your radios, lay low, and call the usual number if you have any trouble.”  He pulled his car key out of his bra and pulled the tarp off the car.  Out by the gardening shed, there were many similar dusty tarps, as Jo-Jo collected cars.  

Klick tapped his mike as a farewell, and that was everyone.

Kurt pulled out and onto the freeway, driving south on the freeway and Not Thinking.


	12. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I hear you've misplaced a sibling", questions and answers, Brittany has a Clue, the first of the reunions

“I propose,” Quinn said. “That it was Professor Plum, in the conservatory, with the-”

The doorbell interrupted her, and Quinn went still, setting her notes back down.  Santana stood up to get her gun from the shelf.  and Brittany- well, Brittany bounded over to the front door and pulled it open before Santana could stop her.  She tackled their unexpected visitor in a hug.  “Kurt!  How was Cancún?”  She shut the door, grabbing his duffel.  

“Absolutely fabulous.” Quinn’s jaw dropped and Santana sighed, redoing the safety as Kurt, oh Lord, Kurt, linked arms with her girlfriend and walked into her house.  

“How did you editor like the new manuscript?”

“She _loved_ it.”  Brittany beamed.  “You were right!”

“Well, I know talent when I see it.  Or read it, as the case may be.”  They reached the card table, where Quinn was still sitting in shock.  Kurt sighed, hand on hip in a shiny red dress that looked worse for the wear.  “Santana.  From the lack of shock, I trust you knew?”

She nodded, arms crossed.  “David showed me the letter.  Very cute code.  Do I need to start preparing your defense, Porcelain?  Your little note was overly vague.”

He shook his head. “All went well.  No legal trouble tonight, and Karofsky’s doing the cleanup.  some prosecuting attorney is going to be very happy in the morning, but I’ve done my part.  I _will_ explain, but I’d rather only do so once and I reek something awful.  May I borrow your shower?”

“Help yourself.”  Santana waved him off to pick up his bag and shuffle down the fall.  

Quinn finally found her voice.  “You knew?  That he was alive?”

She shook her head.  “Not until Thanksgiving.  Davey got a cryptic note signed ‘your queen’ with references only the two of them would get, and address, and an old-school c.b. radio.  We didn’t know what he needed, but...calling Dave means there’s something he wants on the record, I presume some criminal he wanted arrested, and the evidence is much more secure.”

“But what was he _doing?_ ”  

Brittany sipped her soda.  “He wanted the man who killed his dad to be in maximum security, preferably miserable.  It’s taken him this long to get in close enough.”

Q blinked a couple of times.  “Okay, I get ‘Tana, but how do _you_ know?”

Britt just shrugged.  “We talk every week on the phone.”

Santana started, sitting up straight.  “Wait, really?  So all those times?”  

Her girlfriend grinned.  “Yep!”

Santana blinked, remembering hundreds of dismissed conversations over the years.  

_Brittany, back in her Berkeley days, sprawled on her stomach on her lofted bed, gossiping with Santana about her creative writing classes, kicking her knee-sock-clad feet in the air as she exclaimed, “Oh, and Kurt had tea with the Queen of England this week!”_

_Santana giggled and changed the subject.  Brittany had the best imagination._

_Finals week, first semester of law school, and Santana apologized for not having time to read her manuscript.  Brittany just smiled and said, “That’s okay!  I emailed it to Kurt.”_

_She gave Finn a hug at his wedding, saying, “Kurt says he’s sorry he couldn’t make it, but there was a gig in Japan he couldn’t turn down.”_

_Unlocking the door after a long night at work and smiling at Brittany, painting her toenails in the bathtub.  “Oh, whoops. ‘Tana’s home, I gotta go.  Bye, Kurt!”  She would have asked, but then Brittany pulled her into the bathtub with her and kissed her, and Brittany was a very effective distraction.  The nail polish wasn’t completely dried, but replacing the suit was totally worth it in this case._

_She was up to her ears in case files at two in the morning, and Brittany was bringing her a plate of some kind of won-ton things she swore were Jewish- “I got the idea from Kurt, he’s in Jerusalem right now, and so I called Puck for the recipe.”_

_Britt says her new dress was a gift from Kurt.  Santana assumes it’s from some old season that she found at Salvation Army; she doesn’t know enough about fashion to know it’s from the new Spring line that just premiered in Milan._

Huh.  Well, that explained a lot.

***

The buzz lasted while taking off the gown and those ridiculous shoes, and removing his makeup, and washing the hairspray out.  He made it out of the shower and then saw his own face in the mirror and had to sit down on the ledge of the bathtub and focus on breathing. 

Inhale, exhale.

Count the beats, just like vocal warm ups in high school. 

Inhale, exhale.

**

They noticed the silence from the bathroom while Brittany was taking a particularly long time contemplating her notepad.  Santana and Quinn exchanged a series of shrugs and nods and glances that still worked, after all these years, and Santana stood up.  She pressed her ear to the door to the bathroom, and yeah, that silence was pretty disconcerting.  After calling out Kurt’s name and getting no response, she picked the lock and opened the door slowly.  Spotting Kurt, cold and naked and shivering on the edge of the bathtub, she shakily called for Quinn, who brushed past her into the room. 

Fingers to his wrist as she watched his breathing, Quinn sighed.  “He’s in shock.  Britt, get him dry and warm, please.”

“But...why?  He’s not injured, right?”

“He’s been living for one purpose for eight years.  Think Coach, without the Cheerios.”

Santana winced.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.  So, he’s going through emotional sugar-low, a loss of purpose and has probably never fully mourned his father.”  

“That’s out of my purview.  I’ll call the brother.”

“Not the boyfriend?’

“Boyfriend may or may not be comforting after this long.  Boyfriend will want answers and will inspire guilt in both of them, as there is no way in hell they were both celibate for eight years.  Brothers are forever, and don’t break up with you for freaking out and/or crying and/or wearing sweats and/or possibly running a crime ring.  Brothers are forever.”

Brittany helped a shaking Kurt into sweats and cuddled with him on the couch as Santana dialed Finn’s number.

“Hello?”  He yawned.

“I hear you’ve misplaced a sibling.”

“Is that Santana?’

“Wow, it can reason!  I’m amazed.”

“Wait- I only have one sibling.”

“I’m glad you can count, Hudson.”

“You have Kurt.”

“Mmmhmmm.  He’s doing that silent crying thing on the couch, and I have low tolerance for tears.  Get over here and make it stop.”  Kurt was _safe_ , damn it; it was finally cool to mess with Finn’s head again.

“Oh, my God, oh my God.”  There was clattering.  “So glad Rach is on tour or I’d be in New York right now.  Holy Grilled Cheesus, Kurt’s back!  You still live on Lincoln, right?”

“Yep.”  Hudson was hilarious in the middle of the night.  How come she never realized this?  

“Okay, be there in ten.”

 

 

When Finn walked in the door, he stared at Kurt in amazement.  The bare arm poking out of the blanket was more buff than before, and tan, and wasn't that a weird thing to notice?  With some careful maneuvering, he traded places with Britt.

“Hey, Finn.” Said the frog impersonator's head under the blanket in his lap. 

“Hi, Kurt.  How are you doing?”  His hand wavered awkwardly over Kurt’s back.  People in shock were like scared animals, right?  He didn't want to, like, startle Kurt into running away by touching him or something.  But ‘Tana was snickering at the look of thinking-too-hard Finn _knew_ was on his face (being married to Rachel meant that she felt free to point out all his funny faces), so he stopped that indecisive(was that the right word?) thingy and started rubbing his brother’s back. 

“Crappily.”  He croaked, finally.

Finn rolled his eyes.  “Well, duh.  You’re, like, in _sweats._   I always thought that was a sign of the apocalypse.  And your hair’s all messed up.  I mean, _my_ hair looks better than yours right now.”

That got Kurt to sit up, squinting groggily at Finn.  It was hard, but Finn kept the fist pump a mental one.  “You lie.  That looks like a muskrat died up there.  Mine just needs a…”  He shook his head, and it fell into place.  Like _magic_.  “There.  Admit you’re wrong.”  He poked Finn in the chest.  He looked like one of Finn’s kindergarteners after naptime. 

“Geez, okay, your hair is awesome.”

Kurt smiled.  “Excellent.  And why _does_ your hair look like a small mammal died up there?”

Finn shrugged.  “Rachel’s been cutting my hair herself to save money.” 

He heard Quinn snort and Brittany giggle, but focused on Kurt- alive and bitchy, right in front of him, and shuddering at Finn’s statement.  “Never again.  Lady Gaga and Madonna, that’s in _sane_.”

“Well, you gotta stick around, then.  Or I’ll let her start choosing my clothes, too.”  Finn tried really, really hard to keep a straight face, but it was difficult when his mouth kept wanting to smile.  He stared at Kurt, who stared right back for a long moment, with no sound but breathing and faint strains of the mariachi music from the next door neighbors. 

And then Kurt was diving into his chest, and Finn’s arms were around his _brother,_ who was _alive_ and _right there,_ where Finn could hear his heart beating and smell his fancy hair stuff (which hadn’t changed) and mumble into his shoulder. 

“My brother, my brother, I missed you so much.”  Kurt was shaking and Finn was soaking the shoulder of his (or, more likely, Brittany’s) U.C. Berkeley t-shirt, and he was gripping the fabric of the back tight and Kurt had his hands fisted in the cotton of Finn’s OSU Football sweatshirt, too, so it was okay.

“You okay, now?” He asked after a minute or a lifetime, not wanting to let go.  “You _are_ staying, right?” 

Kurt sniffed and rubbed hat his eyes with closed fists.  “I’m staying, well, I’m not disappearing again.  Don’t know if I’ll stay with you, brother dearest, as I’m not crazy enough to room with Rachel Berry.  But I’m not leaving the area, no.”

“She’s leaving on tour tomorrow for nine months, but you didn’t answer the question.”  Finn shook Kurt’s knee and tried(and failed) to give him a stern look.

Kurt signed and hiccupped.  “No, I’m _clearly_ not okay.  But I’m getting there.”

“Well, good.”  Finn squeezed him again and ruffled his hair.  “So, you gonna tell me the story?  Brittany said something about Japan at my wedding, so you totally owe me a Hello Kitty waffle maker.”

Kurt smiled weakly.  “[It’s a toaster oven](http://static.flickr.com/42/103679033_52a359cc00.jpg).”

“Awesome.”  Finn opened his mouth to ask, but the bell rang, and Santana got up from the table, setting down her bottle of beer with a sigh. 

She picked up a holstered gun he hadn’t seen on the sideboard and gave them all a stern look.  “Stay put, people.  I’ll be right back.”

***

Francisco cuffed the last of the sleeping guards to the banister and collapsed on the couch next to that _fine_ piece of F.B.I. agent. The other man was glaring at the bound Johansson, who would probably still be cursing at them if not for the duct tape over his mouth.

“Chill, dude, he’s not going anywhere.”

That earned him a grunt. “Why’d Fancy tell you to stay, anyway? I’d think that none of you would want police involvement, after an op like that.”

Francisco laughed. “I’m Homeland Security, man. The other two are SEALS. And the girls are freaking _college kids._ Maybe he used his criminal contacts for the mop-up everywhere else- and no, you weren’t imagining that- but he wouldn’t trust them to stay loyal for this part.”

“So why you, and not the others?”

“’Cause no one would buy you innocently out on a date with Klick, or god forbid, Master Chief Walker, and just happening to hear something on the scanner and intervening. They’re both so straight it’s _painful_.”

Now ‘Prom King’ looked slightly worried. “That’s the cover? Oh, shit, I’d better call Noah.” Now it was more than slightly.

“Boyfriend? I thought Trouble would’ve known if there was one.” After all, Kurt even sent _his_ mother birthday flowers when Francisco had forgotten; he’d know if one of his people had a significant other.

“Well, we’re not exactly- he’s not my- it’s not like that- “

“ Friends-with-benefits?” Francisco helpfully supplied. “No judging here, man.”

“Shut up.” Dave punched in a number. “No. Yes. I don’t know. “ He glanced up at the ceiling, and then a soft smile broke out on his face. Oh, yeah, _totally_ boyfriends. “Hey, um, just wanted to let you know that I won’t be back tonight. Yeah, I’m fine. And he’s fine. _He_ ’s headed for Santana’s, but I’m stuck here cleaning up the mess. Mmmm. Yep, he left me with the paperwork, all right. Yeah, you can meet us there. What- oh, good Lord, Puck, shut the fuck up. No, I’m pretty sure that was the fifth time. The fourth was the kitchen table. Okay- yeah. See you later.”

Francisco smirked at him as he gave the phone googly eyes. They wanted to be in denial, well, he could have fun with that. “So, Mr. F.B.I., have a name?”

“Dave. You?”

“Francisco.” The doorbell rang, and he stood up to get it. His plans would just have to wait until later.

 

The scene processed with almost no trouble at all. Dave gave an initial statement about them stumbling upon the crime in progress, how he’d recognized Johannson from the Most Wanted posters, and how all the members of the rival group that set up the sting ran off while they were subduing those that were actually armed and dangerous. The recording was pretty damning in and of itself, ending right after Dave burst into the room. His boss was understandably chill that the ghost-like ‘Prom Queen’ had escaped because they’d caught a much bigger fish that night, with enough evidence to put him away for years and years. The recording, combined with the bodies of the wife _and_ the best friend in the basement had clinched it, and the sent David home with a suggestive smile and a “see if you can’t salvage what’s left of your date”

Once they were in Dave’s car, Francisco goes, “So, Prom King, you and Trouble?”

The agent grips the steering wheel tighter, but shakes his head. “No. Got over that in college, thank God. I don’t envy Blaine the roller coaster you _know_ the next few weeks or months will be.” He pulled onto the interstate. “I mean, now I understand why Kurt did it, but his disappearance screwed with a lot of people’s heads. Speaking of, how about _you_ and, er, ‘Trouble’?”

“We’re friends, as much as Trouble’s got any friends.” Kurt’s _old_ friends don’t need to know the whole story. He’d keep that private, unless Trouble decided to share. “I know he and Em- that’s Gizmo- they’re pretty tight, but she’s so much younger than him it’s more of a little-sister thing than a real friend. And everyone else he meets, they see him as a tool to get a job done, not a real person. So, yeah, I’m pretty flattered that Trouble calls me a friend.”

Special Agent Dave was pretty silent most of the way, until they pulled off the freeway into suburbia. “Listen, I don’t know who all will be there, but I’d appreciate you sticking around. He probably needs someone who won’t be giving him the 20 Questions treatment right now, and if I know Satan, she’ll want to start the interrogation as soon as possible. Maybe you can deflect some of the attention off him, answer what you can. I’ll do what I can, but you know a lot more of the story than I do.”

Francisco nodded. “I’ll do my best.” They pulled into the driveway of the only house on the block with lights still on, ready to face the music.


	13. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Egg!

Finn heard the front porch creak and two male voices rumbling over the higher tones of Santana’s snark. She wandered back in, reclaiming her seat and beer and putting her feet up on Britt’s lap as Karofsky and another guy walked in. The stranger paused at the door, scanning until he spotted Kurt and rushing over, plopping down at Kurt’s other side like he belonged there.

“Trouble, you look like crap.”

“I’ve been informed.” Kurt said dryly.

He leaned against the armrest, half-facing Kurt but keeping his legs angled towards the rest of the room. “So, Special Agent Hottie drives like my grandmother.”

Santana laughed. “What are you talking about? Karofsky’s a lead foot!”

The new guy grinned. “Exactly. My nana races dirt track in Mexico.” He pronounced it Meh- hee-co. “Trouble, you want me to fill them in?

Kurt turned to face him, leaning back and using Finn’s shoulder as a headrest. “Please do. But limit the exaggerations, please. And only if David’s willing to keep this off the record.”

Karofsky agreed without hesitation, and this guy, Francisco, started sharing some of Kurt’s adventures- and some really sounded like something from a comic book. Brittany would interject with elaborations or corrections, and Quinn would ask questions from time to time, but Finn just listened.  He was happy to do so.




 

 

He texted Brittany from the street.

 **To: SuperBritt** \- Here.  Safe to enter?

 **From: SuperBritt** \- Door’s unlocked.  Coffee’s hot ;)

 **To: SuperBritt-** U R the best

 

Puck turned off the engine and set the parking brake, shrugging into his coat.  He got out of his truck and glared up at the burnt-out streetlight.  He flicked to the flashlight app as he navigated the icy sidewalk.  He was halfway up the driveway when his boot slipped and he slammed into the side of [Finn’s ridiculous van.  ](http://supergreak.dreamwidth.org/49963.html)

“Great.” He mumbled, pushing himself up and leaning on it, then Quinn’s car to get to the front door. He sighed as he pushed open the door, stepping into the waves of warmth as he kicked the door shut and threw his coat over the mountain on the rack. 

He hesitated in the hall, between the door to the kitchen and the living room where everyone was probably doing drama. 

“I need coffee.”  He said, shaking his head on the way into the kitchen. 

“Liquid courage?”  A stranger said with a grin, perched on the counter, next to the fridge. 

Puck raised an eyebrow.  “Have you _met_ that crowd?  It’s closer to really early than really late, my Jewish Christmas plans got interrupted, and Kurt’s got enough people overwhelming him already.  Now who the hell are you?”

“I’m Francisco, a friend of Trouble’s, I mean, Kurt’s.”  He looked at Puck appraisingly.  “And you are…Puck?”

Puck nodded, reaching up to get a mug.  “That’s me.  How’d you know?”

“Well, I was next to Dave when he called you, and your voice is pretty distinctive.  I think I’m just along for moral support, now.  Those girls in there are _scary,_ dude.” 

Puck chuckled as he poured a cup.  “Yeah, I know.  I’ve dated all of them at some point.  Well, I’ve _slept_ with all of them, which is worse, because they’ve got all the ammo an ex would have without any moral compunction against using it.  Britt’s cool, though.  She won’t harm anybody, unless they threaten Santana or Kurt.”  He took a sip of his coffee and winced.  _They’ve got to have milk or_ something _in the fridge._  

The guy- Francisco- nodded.  “Trouble inspires that kind of loyalty, doesn’t he?”

“He definitely does.  How did you guys meet, anyway?”  Puck got himself some peppermint mocha creamer crap from the fridge and hopped up on the counter across the kitchen.  The other man started telling the story, which soon digressed into stories about his work, and Puck’s work, and finding decent apartments in big cities, and they barely realized how the time was passing in that quiet, warm kitchen.

*** 

Later, he wouldn’t remember even what story he was telling when Quinn furrowed her brow.  "But that's not _legal_ ,is it?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, pushing himself up off the couch.  "You've got to be kidding me. Fabray, 90% of my _life_ is illegal.  You think that keeping kids _alive_ was going to be my stopping point?"  He stomped into the kitchen and slammed the door before she could react, yanking open the fridge and glaring at the contents.  He felt a hand on his bare hip, yanking the sweats up, and jumped, letting the door click shut. 

Francisco was sitting on the counter next to the fridge.  "Had enough?" He leaned forward, grinning at Kurt's reaction.

Kurt leaned against the fridge to face him and punched at his friend's leg.  "I am very tempted to put out a hit on the lovely Doctor Fabray.  _Oh, I'm going to sit here in my WASPy dress and life, raining down judgment on your life._ "  He sighed.

Francisco laughed.  "Well, you'll have to wait, because Red's on vacation this week, Skylar's doing your bidding in Russia, you just got the twins arrested, and isn't Blankenship still pissed at you for that thing in Dubai?"

Kurt yawned and closed his eyes for a long moment.  "I suppose you're right."  He turned and hoisted himself up onto the counter next to his friend, scooting up next to him and looking up.  "Oh, hello, Puck."

Noah looked very amused.  "You guys always talk casually about hitmen?"

Kurt smirked at him.  "Only on holidays.  How are you, Noah?  I didn't hear you come in."

"He's banging Special Agent Hottie." Francisco interjected.

 _Wonder when_ that _started_.  Kurt looked at him appraisingly.   "Oh, _really_ , now.  Why did I not hear about this?"  
Puck shifted uncomfortably.  "We haven't told anyone yet.  We're not really _together_ yet…"  He trailed off, staring at the microwave.

Kurt blinked.  "Well, why ever not?"

Puck shrugged.  "Don't want to scare him off."

Francisco coughed out a laugh.  "No chance _of that._   Dude's _twitter patted._ "

"Oh, yeah?"  Kurt smirked at Puck, who looked surprised. 

" _Oh,_ yeah."   Francisco drawled.  "Gooey eyes after the phone call, worried about the cover story, mentions him in unrelated conversations, body language, even."

Puck ducked his head.  "I should tell him, then? How I feel?"

Kurt nodded.  "Definitely.  David's a romantic at heart.  You don’t have to _tell him,_ per se; he knows you’re a gleek and therefore incapable of expressing emotion through any means but song.  But show him in your own way.  Sing him some sappy song, make him dinner.  "  He sighed, kicking his foot against the cabinet absently as he counted squares in the linoleum.  "He likes butterscotch." 

Noah was smiling when Kurt looked up again.  "Okay, yeah.  I'll tell him."

“Great.  Okay.”  Kurt smiled and sighed.  “I think I can go back in there now without assaulting anyone.  You boys coming with?”  He hopped off the counter and headed back to the other room, the other two close on his heels.  He reclaimed his spot on the loveseat with Finn, while Puck and Francisco sat on either side of David on the couch. 

Quinn didn’t apologize, but changed the subject to gossip- the latest on Sam- which Kurt was infinitely grateful for.

….

When three phones rang out simultaneously.  Finn could _kind_ of pick out them all talking over each other. 

"Badillo.  Be right there."

"Karofsky.  All hands on deck?  But that's not even my department!  Oh.  Yes, sir.  See you in ten."

"Hello?  That's perfectly fine, as it's you.  Yes, mum.  Not a problem, your majesty, I'll get him home safe."  Kurt kept talking as he disappeared down the hall. 

His friend stood up, snapping his phone shut.  "Terror threats at twelve key locations around the country.  All hands."  He shrugged into his coat, leaning into the hallway.  "Stay safe, Trouble.  I've got to run."

Karofsky was slipping his boots back on and lacing them up, and Puck stood up from where he was sitting on Karofsky’s coat.  "I got the same news, and counter terror needs pretty much every agent in the city on this, so, yeah.  Please, for my sanity, you guys, stay out of the city.  Crash on a couch if you have to, Hudson."  He stood up and walked over to Puck, who handed him the coat and looked back at him, nervous look on his face. 

Karofsky picked up his empty hand and dropped something in it, closing Puck's fingers around it.  He stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder.  "Stay at my house?"

Puck whispered, "Okay", and they were doing a weird eye thing.

Which totally started making sense when Dave leaned in to kiss Puck, and Puck pulled him in closer with a hand in Dave's hair, and _wow,_ Finn did _not_ see that coming.

Santana wolf-whistled and Brittany clapped, and they both jumped back, looking at the carpet and blushing.  But when Puck looked back up at Karofsky, he smiled.

Finn had only seen that smile, the pure-happy-one, a couple of times since they were kids.  Winning Championships and when he first held Beth, and now.  It looked like pure, unadulterated joy, and so he guessed that this thing with Karofsky was the real deal.

Karofsky cleared his throat.  "Yeah, um, stay out of trouble?"

Now Puck's normal grin was back. "Only if you do."

And then Karofsky was out the door, too, and Kurt appeared out of the hallway, duffel over his shoulder and back in real clothes.   "Prince Harry's at Disneyworld and his mum wants an extraction before the tangos realize he's there.  That's leverage she does _not_ want them to have. My ride's leaving in five minutes, with or without me, so I will see you all when this is over."  He gave a short bow and ran out the door, the door slamming shut behind him.




"Kurt knows the Queen of England."  Santana said bluntly. 

"I _told_ you so!" Brittany sang teasingly, and tapped the deck of cards in her hand.  "Now, who's up to get beaten at Clue?"

Finn had to laugh.  Seriously, how was this his life?  "What the hell, deal me in.  Dibs on Professor Plum."

 

 

He had a ride because the brass called up his SEAL friends the same time everyone else got word, and after a quick text, they convinced the chopper pilot to wait for him.   Of course, they didn’t know they were promising dinners and Padres tickets to an officer who knew Porcelain and would’ve done it for free.  (Clarise Stackpole had gotten stranded in Kazbekistan a week before she was supposed to ship back for leave.  Her fiancé Maria knew somebody who knew somebody who contacted Porcelain, because she had spent too long planning the damn wedding and if they postponed it, California might very well make it illegal again, and then what would they do?  The chopper landed on the street in front of the San Diego Metropolitan Christian Church ten minutes before the wedding was scheduled to start.  Her hair was a wreck, but she got into her dress whites and down the aisle in the nick of time.  Maria would say that she’d never looked more radiant.)




 

 

He shouldered open the door to Dave's house, and man, that felt different when he held the keys.  He yawned, setting his bag down on the kitchen counter (He'll admit it- he expected to stay a few days)

Puck washed his hands before throwing the ingredients for a roast into Dave's seriously epic crock pot.  The Polish grandmother gave it to Dave the last time she'd visited, with a heaping of recipes and hugs.  She seemed to love Puck and treated him like a part of the family, which, really, should have tipped him off that this thing of theirs was more than friendship. 

Noah smiled at the memory as he went to lie down for a nap, but sat straight up after a few minutes.  He took a deep breath and grabbed his phone.  "Yo, Anderson."  He said without preamble.  "You need to drive your ass down to Davey's house, right now."

"Good morning to you, too, Puck.  What's up?"

"Long story.  I will tell you everything, if you get your ass in gear and out of the city."

"Is everyone okay?"

Puck sighed.  "There's a terror threat to the City.  Well, most of the cities.  I trust the feds'll take care of it, but if the news breaks, you won't be able to get out of the city.  And Kurt'll kill me if something happens to you."

Blaine paused.  "That wasn't a rhetorical statement, was it.  You know where Kurt is."

"Yeah, he's on his way to see Prince Harry at Disneyworld."

"If you don't want to tell me, fine.  But don't give me that kind of bull, Puckerman."

"I'm serious, Anderson.  He was here a couple of hours ago, but then they got the terrorist tip and apparently he's the man to know for rescuing people, 'cause the Queen of England called him up.  When he gets back, he's coming straight here."

Blaine was silent for a second.  "I'm on my way."

"Door's unlocked.  I'm taking a nap." Puck yawned, hung up, rolled over, and was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

 

 

(Fancy’d take care of Eyebrows, Rachel was on a tour bus, halfway to Memphis, Mike and Tina spent the last month backpacking through, well, they last emailed from Singapore.  Everyone else lived in suburbs or the country.  Santana wasn’t worried, of course, she was just...doing a mental inventory.  For Brittany’s sake.)

 

 

He woke up a little past noon, and checked on Blaine, who was working on something at Puck's keyboard in the spare room.   Short Stack was mumbling to himself about harmonies, so Puck let him be.  He ate a sandwich while destroying Dave's high score on Grand Theft Auto.  Francisco wandered in as Puck was stealing a semi.  Guy looked beat, and sat down on the couch next to him.Puck saved the game and switched to two-player as he started to talk.




"Neutralized the threats in Boston, New York, D.C.  Actually, it was the Boston Mob who found the nuke's location and called us."

"So, uh, if they sent you guys home, then where's Dave?"

***

They were so swamped today- holidays, national emergencies, and half the staff was home with the flu.   Quinn was still laughing at Dr. Hunt's green hair- not chlorine, but someone-swapped-the-shampoo green- when she ducked into the next urgent care room.   She grabbed the file and skimmed the first page before looking up.  "Noah's not going to be happy with you, Karofsky."




The F.B.I. agent at least had the intellect to look a little sheepish and stop kicking his feet on the exam table, holding a soaked bandage to his left arm. 

"I know.  He hates it when I get hurt."

Quinn snorted.  "That's putting it lightly.  Okay, quick and painful means you take the shirt off, slow and slightly less painful means I cut off the sleeve.  Either way, it's a loss because bullet holes can't be patched, you idiot.  What were you thinking?"

Karofsky stared at her for a second before using his good arm to awkwardly shrug out of the t-shirt, wincing when his left arm moved.  "I was thinking he was about to fire into a crowd of kids in plaid skirts on a field trip, and jumping him got him away from the nuke so that the bomb squad could defuse it."

"Well, at least it's superficial."  She sighed, inspecting the damage and reaching for her supplies.  Topical anesthetic and antiseptic, clean bandages, surgical thread.  "Muscles's dinged but that'll heal.  Few dissolving stitches and no heavy lifting for a while and you'll be fine." 

She talked as she patched him up.  "Now, I may be only a lifelong-frenemy and the mother of his child, but Puck is very important to me.  And, well, I was head cheerleader under Sylvester and went more than a little crazy during the last half of high school.  If it's not working out, deal with it honestly, but you are never going to cheat on Puck or screw around with his heart, understand me?  He’s got enough issues as it is, he doesn’t need any more."

Dave said what any wise man would do in his situation.  He nodded and kept eye contact as he said, "Yes, ma'am."

***

Francisco shrugged.  "Who knows.  He probably has messes to clean up or something.  But I was on leave, so they're going to make one of the rookies do my paperwork for me as an apology for screwing up my vacation."  Francisco grinned.  "And there's going to be a lot of it."

"Nice."  Puck nodded.  "'Nother round?"

"Only if you're prepared to lose."  Francisco said with a smirk.

"Bring it on, tough guy."

***

It wasn’t as simple as he’d presented to the Gleeks.  Prince Harry’d been getting a special early opening, which was more for Disney’s sake than his.  Three hours to ride everything with no lines and no press swamping him.  In exchange, Disney didn’t have to deal with the park grinding to a halt every time he breathed or the security nightmare.  And he planned to make a brief appearance and sign autographs, so, all in all, win-win.

But as he and his cast member meandered “backstage” away from Toon Town, they heard harsh voices in the main park.  They saw, through the fence and heavy bushes, one of the gardeners and a stranger pushing a cart, and okay, Harry’s Arabic was rusty, but he’d spent enough time in the Middle East to understand “this nuclear bomb will wipe this abominable park off the face of the Earth”

“It’s a nuke.” He whispered,  “Oh, my Lord.  It’s a nuke.”

The cast member, a chipper 18-year-old who normally played Cinderella, grabbed his wrist with wide eyes and pulled him through a series of tunnels, pulled a garment bag from an office along the way, and pushed him into Small World, shoving the case at him.

“Huh?  What? We need to stop them!”  He insisted.

Cinderella shook her head, speaking in a rushed whisper.  “If I get a Prince killed, I’m fairly certain that the ghost of Walt Disney himself will come back to haunt me.  Stay here, blend in.  Quietly.  Hopefully, they’ll be gone by opening, that’s in five hours, but if not, blend.  Word gets out that you’re here, they’ll blow us all prematurely.”

“Where are you going?”  She grinned.  “They should be passing the castle soon.  If I can get pictures before I call the F.B.I., they won’t be going in blind.  I prefer to maximize the odds of the city surviving, wouldn't you?”  She grinned before dashing back out into the light.

Harry watched her disappear helplessly before opening the garment bag.  It was an imitation Royal Guard uniform, close to the ones he’d spent his childhood seeing.  

Once it was on, he pecked out a quick text.

 

**To: Mum  | tangos @ Dis. Hiding**

**From: Mum | where are you, darling?**

**To: Mum | sm wrld**

**From: Mum | I’ll send someone for you.   Hang tight.**

 

They made it off Disney property about thirty seconds before the helicopters and police cars started to swarm.  They got to a barricade and had to stop.  

The cop looked at the guy driving him.  “You Fancy?”

The guy nodded.  

“Chief says ‘hi’ and he wants a briefing sometime next week, once the dust settles.”  The cop didn’t look old enough to take his A-levels, much less be a P.C., and he looked bewildered by the entire situation.  But the guy driving him just grinned and waved as they drove on.  They got into the airport by a back gate and a back door and, though all flights were grounded, a flight attendant greeted them and handed Harry a ticket.  “The other 599 people on this jet will be very, very happy to be getting home.  They’ve been stuck since the alert went out.  Your friend has connections in very high places.”  She said with a smile.

The prince turned to thank his ‘friend’, but the younger man had already vanished.  

 

The flight attendant apologized as she sat him in the last seat in business class, next to a ten-year-old in braids and eyeliner marathoning Doctor Who on a beat-up laptop.  After thirty minutes of ignoring him trying to read lips over her shoulder (what?  He loved the Tenant years.) she looked at him, rolled her eyes, and plugged a second pair of earbuds into the computer, balancing it between their tray tables.  

He didn’t think she even recognized him.

 

Mum met him at the gate, dressed in one of father’s old suits and a false beard and a sign with his childhood nickname.  He picked her up and swung her around.  “It’s so great to be back home.  Oh, and there’s a young lady at Disney that we need to reward somehow.  Any ideas?”

There was nothing better than home soil.

 

 ***

Kurt knocked on Dave's door, unsurprised when Puck pulled it open and beckoned him in. Francisco was currently destroying Dave at "Just Dance", if their life bars were anything to go by- the old-school, first gen one.  He snorted, and Puck rolled his eyes. 

"Yeah, I hadn't heard 'Dynamite' in years, either, but they're both trying to dance to it.  'Try' being the key word.  How'd your thing go?"

The song ended as Kurt sat down to pull off his boots, and the others came into the kitchen, blatantly for eavesdropping purposes.  Not that Kurt could blame their curiosity. 

Kurt yanked off his second boot and stood before unbuttoning his jacket and leaning against the kitchen counter.  "The Prince caught an early flight back to Old Blighty, unharmed and less obnoxious to rescue than I'd feared."

David shifted, hands in his pockets.  "So, um, are you retired or not?  You told Hudson that you were sticking around-"

"Oh, I am." 

"-but you still answered the call.  So, is the Prom Queen retired?"

Kurt sighed.  "Are you asking as a friend, David, or as Special Agent Karofsky?"

"As your friend."

Kurt nodded, conceding.  "Well, then.  'Prom Queen'; the woman who got vengeance against Cyrus Johannson, she's retired.  She's called in all her favors and hung up her lockpicks.  Mostly because…well, she's on the record.  The things she specialized in only really worked because the Prom Queen was, essentially, a ghost.  Also, I had to befriend a lot of nasty people as her, and I'd rather discontinue that practice."

"Good."  David nodded, and Francisco gave Kurt an encouraging smile over his shoulder.  "What about the other aliases, then?  I know you have more; everyone on Christmas was calling you by different names."

Kurt closed his eyes with a sigh.  "Most of them were throwaways that won't be mourned.  I suppose Fancy will keep on patron-sainting, the various police departments love her too much to let her die off."  He said blithely.  "They might have to actually start doing their jobs again, if Fancy's girls stopped keeping the streets clear.

Francisco laughed tried to muffle the sound in the back of David's shoulder.  Funnily enough, Puck wasn't glaring at the proximity, but had that 'Brittany and Santana are making out now' look in his eyes.  Interesting.  He continued, “I have a handful of active cases that I need to keep an eye on, but nothing illegal or inherently dangerous.  And Porcelain, of course.  Those lines are staying open."

Puck handed him a steaming mug.  "So, what does Porcelain do, then?  And does Sue know you're still using her nickname?"

Kurt wrapped his hands around the mug and took a deep breath.  Hmmm, Kona.  He took a sip.  "I'm sure she does.  Porcelain does a fair business in extractions.  Usually in other countries- business men who get into trouble in Saudi Arabia, kidnapped children in Mexico, American operatives that the CIA can't officially extract, as they aren't officially there, missionaries caught when China changed their laws, and so on.  They either pay ridiculously well or nothing at all, but it's usually worth the risk.  Most of Porcelain's clients tend to be good people in trouble, unlike the Prom Queen's.  Hers just tend to be trouble."

Dave's face was frozen, but Puck just looked curious.  "Usually?"

Kurt jerked a thumb at Francisco, "Well, it landed me with this guy.  Twice."

"Oh, yeah, like you really minded me tagging along in Mexico, Trouble."

Dave interrupted before Kurt could come up with a rejoiner.  "Serial killer's wife in West Virginia who refused WitSec for her minor children testifying against him.  Went camping and never came back."

Kurt looked him in the eyes, poker face on.  "They're safe, together, and nowhere near here."

David stared right back before he looked down and coughed.  "Okay, then."

Puck leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping his own coffee.  “Tell us a story, then.  I have a feeling the ones Francisco was telling the Unholy Trinity were highly edited, so I want dirt.”

“Why would you assume that, Noah?”  Kurt pulled his best ‘innocent tourist look’, which made David snort and Francisco hide a grin behind his hand.  No, he couldn’t fool anyone here. 

Puck laughed.  “First off, dude, your brother was in the room.  You were both vague when talking about the people you worked with to take the asshole down, and I understand that, but he’d stop at the interesting points and start telling another story.”

Kurt nodded.  “A point to you.  What shall I start with?”

 

“Russia.”  Francisco dragged out the name with a smirk.  “You’ve got to start there.”

 

He was halfway through the story- it involved an American business woman with problems in translation, dressing in drag, the Russian secret police, a flock of chickens, and an awful lot of vodka, and the only reason Francisco knew about it was Kurt’s drunken call from the Russian airport on his way out, scotch free- he heard a voice behind him.

"So, that's what you've been doing, then.  Gallivanting around like some kind of vigilante, while we were all so worried, having a ball breaking the law?  I never would have figured you for a criminal."

Kurt turned, slowly, on his heel to face the living room.  He absently noticed the other three men slipping past Blaine, through the door and down the hall, but really only saw Blaine's face, resigned and bitter and a little disgusted.  Kurt spoke softly.  "I can accept your anger, Blaine, but I won't permit you to judge me."

Blaine's fists balled up at his sides.  "Well, it sounds like someone should, because it seems like you just don't care about all the bad things you've done!  The Kurt Hummel I know and love would never do that kind of thing!"

Kurt blew out a break as he glanced at the ceiling.  "Well, then maybe you never really knew me, then!  Because Kurt Hummel-" He spat out his own name like a curse "Has always been a chameleon, has always adapted to be able to survive, has always been willing to manipulate situations, and yes, sometimes people, to suit his needs.  And Kurt Hummel has always, always been, first and foremost, his father's son.  And nobody pushes the Hummels around.  So if you don't recognize me when I'm too damn tired to wear a mask around you, Blaine Warbler, then you never really loved me in the first place."

"None of that even makes sense, Kurt, and I would think that a living boyfriend would hold precedence over a dead father!"

It was- it was like the fucking hammer of Thor slamming through his chest, and Kurt actually had to take a step back.  The colors started blurring and suddenly his ears contained nothing but static.  "I- I - I have to- I have to get out of here."  He mumbled as he walked out the front door, barely feeing the slush between his toes or the wind on his face as he fumbled for his car keys, until he was finally sitting down and giving some relief to his shaking legs and starting the engine.  He couldn't differentiate between the cold of his blood and that of the snow at all as he blindly navigated across the city.

 

 

 

“What the hell were you thinking, Anderson?”  Puck finally broke out of David’s restraining arms and stormed down the hall.  “You were supposed to say, ‘Glad you’re alive’ and give him a hug, not impugn his good name, hit all his weak spots, and yell at him for mourning his father.  What kind of selfish asshole are you?”  

“I was just- I was just surprised, and I didn’t think-”

Dave snorted.  “No shit, Sherlock.”

“But he acted so strange, and then he overreacted-”

“First, that wasn’t overreacting.  The living person he loves the most in the world pretty much called him a lying, unloveable crook.  Secondly, he’s been up for 37 hours straight, now.  In those hours, he’s had more emotional reunions than anyone should ever have to suffer, finally apprehended the man he’s been chasing down for the last eight years, saved a prince of England from death in an unrelated terrorist attack, and also, drank three cups of _Brittany's_ coffee.  Black.  That's pretty traumatic, in and of itself."

Blaine ducked his head. “But what about the rest?  I didn’t mishear that, did I?”

Puck laughed, sat down, and proceeded to inform Blaine about the Kurt Hummel he knew- the one from sophomore year, fierce and independent and bitchy, Sylvester's protégée, the Kurt who willed the Hudmel family into existence and lashed out against Rachel in the World’s Worst Makeover, the Kurt who got the football team to dance to _Single Ladies_ and never failed to stand up to Dave or himself, even at their bullying worst.  

In context, Kurt's actions made perfect sense. 

The shorter man’s eyes got wider and sadder as he slowly figured out how much he was missing, and the magnitude of what he said to Kurt.

 

 

_It took only a few seconds to pick the lock of Francisco’s apartment door.  Kurt locked the door behind him, turned on the heat, and slipped on some of his friend’s Texas A &M sweats and slid into his bed, pulling the mountain of quilts(all Christmas presents from ‘cisco’s Nana) over his head.  He curled up, slipping into sleep before the thoughts could catch up and suffocate him.  It was a deep and dreamless sleep, stemming from sheer exhaustion, and he thought he could sleep for years.  _

 

They'd finally badgered Blaine enough for the night and let him crash in the spare room before retiring to David's, themselves.  Once Anderson was asleep, Puck asked him where Kurt might go.

"Oh, he's at my place, or I'm pretty sure, at least.  It's closer than any of his safehouses, and he probably just wants to be alone."

Now it was Puck's turn to look at _Francisco_ appraisingly.  "He's got a key to your apartment?"

Francisco laughed.  "No, but he's picked the damn thing so many times, he could probably do it in his sleep.  He bitches at me enough for having cheap locks, but I never bother to change them, so..."  He shrugged.  "It's Trouble.  He knows he's welcome there."

"You guys are so weird."

"So says the guy who's more or less moved in, but is scared to say _boyfriend."_

Puck clearly about to retort, but then Dave came out of the shower in just a towel, swearing and clutching a reddened washcloth to his arm.  " _DUDE!"_   He exlaimed.  "You're bleeding!"

Dave shrugged.  "'s just a graze." 

"Graze meaning...gunshot."  Francisco drawled.  "Okay, where's your first aid kit?"

He went to grab it while Puck swore at Dave.  "You fucknut!  You didn't tell me you were injured!"

Karofsky fumbled through a whispered explanation (something about...plaid?  Who the fuck knows?)  while Francisco dabbed at the wound with gauze.  "Stitches held but you washed the clots away."  That inspired a new litany from Puck ' _You had to get stitches!'_ while Francisco chuckled at them and wrapped Dave's (seriously impressive) bicep with a roll of sterile gauze, tying it in place.  "This'll hold better than tape, how you treat your injuries.  Try not to flex too much, macho man."

Dave nodded.  "Thanks, man."

"No problem.  One last game of _Grand Theft Auto_?" 

Puck laughed.  "Now, that's my kind of man.  No such thing as too many video games."

"Amen." Dave agreed resoundly.  "'Specially after a day like today."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was difficult to write because it's a different style and pacing from the rest of the story, and to make matters worse, I lost one of my handwritten scenes and had to re-write it, and I'm fairly certain it's not as good as the original. So if Puck-and-Francisco inna kitchen isn't up to par, that's why.  
> Also, writing fight scenes? It's not fun. There's a reason I usually stay far away from angst.  
> But all that it was difficult to write (and took longer than planned in editing stages), I like how it turned out.
> 
> The final chapter will be up soon! Thanks to everyone who read and commented thus far, for hanging on so long. You're the best!


	14. The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow

_If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear, some flowers in your hair..._

Kurt rolled over and grabbed his personal cell phone off the nightstand, thumbing the Talk button.  “‘Cello?”  He yawned.  

“You doing okay there, Trouble?”  Francisco’s voice sounded more amused than worried.

Kurt sat up with groan.  “Yeah.  Expected you to be here when I woke up, though.  You didn’t _have_ to crash on their couch.”  

 “Nah, um, it, well, it wasn’t a problem.” He coughed. “And the plows only came through an hour ago; if you were awake you’d’ve noticed the _three feet,_ how awesome is that? I bet all the kids are happy.  Anyway. You’ve got to hear this.”

It sounded like he dropped the phone in his pocket, which made sense a moment later when Francisco walked into the other room and other voices came clearer.  

Blaine’s voice came clearer.  “...I mean, we all do stupid, _insane_ things around the people we love, right?  I was an asshole, I’ll admit it, and Kurt didn’t deserve to be treated like that. But I wasn’t really thinking clearly, either. Yeah, I said stupid stuff, because I let the buildup of anger and frustration from the last eight years get to me, but that’s all part of grief. ”

Puck scoffed.  “You still didn’t answer the question.  You in love with him, or not?  It’s a simple question.”

Blaine sighed.  “I’ve spent the last eight years in love with the boy he _was_.  But he’s not that boy anymore-”

“I hope not!  If I was still the same douche I was in high school, my life would seriously suck.”

“He’s not that boy any more, and I don’t know the man he’s become.  But I want to- he’s hotter than he ever was, and smart, and successful, but compassionate and still bitchily funny.  And let me tell you, that assertive thing he’s got going on is _really_ doing it for me. I just- I was _surprised,_ because the last time I saw Kurt he was _eighteen_ and was like a totally different person.”

Puck laughed. “So, what’s your plan, then? Groveling?”

“Well, it’s a start!  I really want to get to know him, this new him.  I know it's the same person, but it's still like meeting someone all over again, after all this time.  I thought maybe opening with _I made assumptions, I was unspeakably rude, and I’m sorry_ would be smart.  Then, maybe do something romantic for him?  What would he like, do you think?”

“No, no, no, nine, niet, ie, just, _no._ ”  Francisco’s voice broke in.  “You _suck_ at romance, at least when you plan it.”

“Says who?”

“Says every story I’ve ever heard about you, Mr. I-Think-Flirting-With-Other-Boys-Is-A-Good-Way-To-Get-Into-Kurt’s-Pants.” 

 “Oh, don’t remind me about Valentines.”  Puck said.  “Giving him the _great ‘cause it’s for Cho Chang_ treatment after a winter of nothing but flirty duets and holding hands?  Not classy , dude.  Plus, I never could figure out how that Harry Potter guy looks so much like you, which just made it more obnoxious.” 

Kurt giggled, because as painful as it was _then,_ they were pretty ridiculous in retrospect. 

Puck cleared his throat.  “So, yeah, Kurt loves you _despite_ your attempts at romance, not because of them.  I’ll grant you that _Unusual_ went well until the piano burst into flames, but really, go with spontaneous things, dude.  Unless you want those triangular eyebrows to catch on fire. Again.”

Before the directed ribbing could turn into general 'pick on Blaine day', Kurt turned off the speakerphone and punched in a text.

 **TO: flower child badillo:** Pass B your phone, please?

 **FROM: flower child badillo:** aye, aye, capn crunch

 **FROM: flower child badillo:**  hi?

 **FROM: flower child badillo:** That you, Kurt? Or is F messing w/ me?

 **TO: flower child badillo:** It’s me

 **TO: flower child badillo:** You want to get to know me?

 **FROM: flower child badillo:** YES

 **FROM: flower child badillo:** omg, yes

 **FROM: flower child badillo:** If it’s not too late.

 **TO: flower child badillo:** you haven’t.  I’ll pick you up @ 11. 

He was buttoning up his left boot when his phone rang. “It’s Puck.  Got the number from Francisco”  Kurt transferred the phone to his shoulder and started working on the other boot.

“What can I help you with, Noah?”

“Your revenge is _awesome._  The little guy’s freaking out.   _I don’t know what to wear!”  Puck afffected a nasally whine.  “and_ Dave’s, like, ‘dude, you only have two sets of clothes with you.  Does it really matter?’  And your boy’s laughing his _ass_ off.  He said, he thought your stories about our drama levels were exaggerated.”

“To which you responded...?”  Kurt stood up and threw the quilts back on the bed, grabbing his bag from the floor.

Puck laughed.  “We all met in _show choir_ , dude.”

“Nice.  Don’t worry, I’ll have Blaine out of your hair soon enough.”

“Okay, but we’re keeping Badillo.  Boy’s chill, _and_ he’s got two more weeks of vacation time.”

“And the fact that he’s dishing dirt on me has nothing to do with that.” Lights off, lock the door, down the stairs.

“Oh, nothing at all.”  Puck said, not-so-innocently.  Kurt could pretty much see the smirk.

“That’s what I thought.  I need to get going if we’re going to make our lunch appointment, but I’ll see you in a few.”

“Playing the vague card, Hummel?  If you want to be like that, I’ll catch you soon.”

 

Blaine spent most of the lunch with President Huntsman- the surreal, odd lunch with President Huntsman- gaping like an idiot as Kurt chatted with the older man like they were friends or something.   He breezed through explanations about a jet leaving for England the previous day before the air traffic ban was lifted and something about seals on a helicopter?  There was absolutely _perfect_ barbeque chicken on the table that pretty much fell off the bones, and Blaine kind of tuned them out in favor of the food.  They were discussing foreign policy and sharing gossip about the King of Jordan and flawlessly flowing from English into French, then Chinese and into what Blaine _thought_ was Farsi, but could have been some other Middle Eastern language.  He remembered reading something in the _Times_ about the President speaking a bajillion languages, and he knew the Kurt spoke French, but hearing it like this was still a shock.  And _wow,_ who knew that maybe-Farsi sounded so sexy in Kurt’s musical voice?  Kurt was so smart, and so _cultured,_ and why was he even interested in Blaine anyway? 




The transition back to English startled him out of his daydream (tira misu, holy crap, he didn’t care if it made Kurt his semi-criminal sugar daddy, he had to eat like this more often). 

“In February, we planned to meet, yes.”  Kurt was saying, taking a sip of iced tea before he rose to his feet. 

The President stood and shook his hand.  “Give Lizzie my best, will you?”

Kurt laughed.  “Oh, I will.  From Jonnie, perhaps, you impertinent thing, you know Her Majesty hates for people to call her that.” 

“And about Boxing Day…you know I don’t have to authority to investigate fully- and I really wouldn’t _want_ that kind of authority- but my resources are limited.  Would you mind…?”

Kurt flicked his eyes to the Secret Service agents posted around the room.  “I’ll keep my ear to the ground, of course.  I can’t promise you anything other than information, but I’ll do what I can.  As a personal favor, mind you.”

“All I can ask for.”  The President smiled. 

Huntsman embraced Kurt before they left.  “Call me if you need anything, kiddo.” 

If Kurt’s eyes were red by the time they crossed the grounds and reached his car, Blaine would give him the benefit of doubt (because Kurt valued his composure, still) and blame it on the fierce winds and the lightly falling snow. 

They all leaned in as Kurt pulled an envelope out of his jacket, running a finger under the flap.  “Ahem.  Chrissy’s getting her A.A. in May and she wants you all to come.  Pauline got her G.E.D. last week and got a job on the cleaning staff at a school up in New York- they say, if she takes some management classes, their head janitor’s retiring next year and she’s got more motivation for the position than anybody else, so let’s all cheer her on for that.  Annie’s doing well in rehab, this says, a month left to go. 

Er, the next bit says something about a businessman who was giving you grief?”  One of the older ladies spit on the ground.

“Yeah, what about the bastard?”

“According to Fancy, the police took your reports and sketches- there’s a note to thank a Mindy in particular-” a petite girl in the back raised her hand.  “and cross-referenced them with an old FBI profile, he’s apparently wanted for a string of murders in Montana, years ago.  Congratulations, y’all put a serial killer in prison!”  That garnered cheers.  “Oh, and if Mindy ever wants work as a police sketch artist, they say to contact a Sergeant Wilkerson?  That’s everything about that.  Finally, it says-  ooh, lucky girls- there’s a crash pad as a thanks for the shut-out and apology for the lost income.  Mortgage is paid off and there’s a year’s worth of utilities, so long as there aren’t any clients or drugs or lawbreaking on Fancy’s property.  There’s an address and directions here, and there’s a separate envelope for Vanessa.”

A tall, gorgeous lady in a mini-dress stepped forward.  “That’s me.”  Rumbled out a smooth baritone voice.  Whoa, _unexpected_. 

Kurt handed her the smaller envelope and the letter.  She shook out the open envelope, holding up a key.  “Ladies, we’ve got a home!”

They gathered around her, cheering and crowding to read the letter.  Kurt slipped away, pulling Blaine up from where he was leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed against the brisk wind.

They were halfway back to the car when someone called out, “Wait!”

The kid running after them was sharply dressed in vintage designer.  “Kurt, oh, my God.  Did she tell you?”

Kurt squeezed the young man in a hug before holding him at arm’s length and looking at him appraisingly.  “Pulled a Neal Caffrey?  I very much approve.  Tell me what?”

The kid was bouncing in his leather boots.  “I don’t know how, Fancy magic or whatever, but you’re looking at the newest consultant for the FBI.  As of January 1st, I’m working 20 hours a week for Missing Persons, something about my application essay and my life experiences showing perspective.  I didn’t even apply!  You know, with my record, I didn’t think I’d pass the background check, but that’s enough for rent, and they’ll pay me full time once I finish my degree.”

Kurt shrieked and grinned, looking seventeen again.  “Oh, that’s fantastic!  And you’ve got the rest of your tuition paid?”

“Yeah, my last client before Christmas paid for three weeks up front.  Last client _ever_ , thank you very much.  It covered everything for this year with plenty left for books and food.”

Kurt sighed happily.  “That’s so amazing, Mark.  Hey, Blaine, this is Mark, he’s a senior at American University in…was it Poly/Sci and Pscych?”

“Sociology.  Cute b.f., Kurt.”  He smirked in Blaine’s direction. 

Kurt grinned.  “I _know_ , right?  He’s adorable.  You’ve still got that class, so I’ll let you go.  Tell me when graduation is, okay?  I’ll make you a suit.”

“Through the grapevine?”

“Of course.”  

“Okay, thanks!  It’s great to see you again!”  The kid bounced off again, in the direction of the bus stop, and Blaine just kind of blinked.   




“So they all think you’re, like, a messenger?”

Kurt laughed.  “I didn’t create the mythos, but I can roll with it.  ‘Kurt’ is Fancy’s first Lieutenant on the East Coast, ‘El’ or ‘Ellie’ is Fancy’s public face on the west, because Fancy’s never been seen.  Rumor says she’s a saint.”  Kurt opened the passenger side of the car to let Blaine in before walking around.  

“It’s taken a long time and I’m far from done, but Fancy’s goal is to keep the streets SSC.  If someone wants to hook, that’s their choice, but Fancy’s eliminated a vast majority of pimps through various means, and gotten the coerced, underaged, the desperate off the street.  Her girls- and boys- stay clean and sober and look out for each other.  They’re getting smarter, spending their earnings on safe places to live and investments and education, and as a result, are higher end.  Take the _unwilling_ off the streets, and basic supply and demand explains why it’s so much more expensive to hire a companion for an evening than it was ten years ago.  It’s not _all_ QE II.”

In Blaine’s opinion, that was more economics than Blaine ever thought went into prostitution.  Of course, he’d never even _met_ a hooker until today, at least as far as he knew. And, he guessed that explained why Kurt told Karofsky that police chiefs wouldn’t want Fancy to retire.  He hadn’t seen the crime statistics, but no drugs probably meant fewer drug-related crimes and welfare fraud and more useful witnesses for other cases, too.  “So, that’s what you do?  Rule the street with a velvet glove, or whatever symbolism you want to use?”

Kurt laughed as he parallel parked in front of a tiny boutique.  “No, Fancy’s just a hobby.  My main work is much more complicated.  Was more complicated, whatever.  I’m keeping some of it; it’s fun and harmless playacting.  Now, play along, okay?”

He pulled open the door and the owner lit up like a Christmas tree and hobbled over to Kurt with a beautifully engraved cane.  “Kurt, my dear boy!  I was so happy to get your call”  He pecked Kurt on either cheek before taking Blaine’s hand and shaking it vigorously.  “Pleasure to finally meet you, Blaine.”

He turned back to Kurt.  “Yours is waiting in the back, assuming you haven’t lost any more weight since your last fitting.  I’ve mocked up something for your friend, based on your estimations, but on the time frame...”

“Of _course_ I’ll help with the alterations.”  Kurt nodded.  

“Good, good.”  The old man shuffled him off to the fitting room.  when he came out to stand on the little stool, the others were reviving an argument that was clearly old hat.  

"But your designs should be on the runway, darling, not sold under _my_ name to people who scarcely recognize their worth."  He gestured with a fabric pencil.

Kurt pulled a pin from between his teeth and crouched down to tuck up Blaine's hem.  "It's income, Claude.  I've never done enough pieces to make a full season, so commission’s all I could do."

"But you have more time now, yes?"

"You heard?"

"Of course!  Who do you think I am?”  He tucked in the unfinished sleeves of the jacket.  "But good riddance to bad rubbish.  Community's better off without that waste of oxygen.  You did good work, my boy."

"Thank you."  Kurt was blushing when he rose up to mess with the hem of the jacket. 

"So, you do have more time.  I'm expecting a fall debut out of you."

Blaine interjected.  "Isn't it difficult for a designer to break into the business?"

Claude laughed.  "Not with my connections.  I've 'let it slip'-" He actually did the air quotes "-that I've an _exceptional_ young student I've been hiding away."

"You flatter me."  Kurt patted Blaine's back.  "Go take that off, sweetheart, so we can start sewing."

They altered Blaine's new suit in no time at all while he just kind of stared.  _Observed_ , he mentally coreected, he was _learning._   About Kurt, and this self-confident personality.  He'd always been confident, but that like a façade compared to this new assurance that Kurt wore like a pair of favorite skinny jeans.  It suited him really, really, well, and Blaine felt himself falling in love with every minute- faster and harder than he’d fallen the first time around. 

 

 

Once they were sharply dressed in fashionable eveningwear and in the car, Blaine asked.  “So, Claude."

Kurt navigated towards the interstate.  “Old friend.   Knows everything there is to know in North America and most of Europe.  I did some work for him, when I first got started.”

“Doing what?”

“You would be amazed at how much people talk in front of their tailors, especially if they’re French and think I’m just a hapless American intern, or if they’re American and think I’m some _foreigner_ who doesn’t speak English, working for minimum wage.  The second Claude left the room, they’d start babbling on about, oh, everything from affairs to classified information to criminal deals, as if I were just furniture.”  He laughed.  “We made a good team.  I was deft with a needle and fluent in French, and later, more.   He got the identity of my father’s killer, even though it took him several years.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“Well, I was asking around and attracting all the wrong sorts of attention.  He taught me a _lot_ of what I know, and sent me on my way when I started annoying him”

Blaine had approximately six billion questions he wanted to ask, but bit his lip and opted for “Where are we going now?”  He would have _time._   Well, if he didn’t push too much and scare Kurt off again, he _would_ have time to get answers to all those questions. 

“Friend of mine in Boston is throwing a banquet for one of his businesses.”

“You always this busy?”  _Because I don’t think I could keep up with this, long-term._

Kurt shook his head.  “Scarcely.  But  I cashed in all my chips at once to make Christmas Day happen, so I’m tying up loose ends.  Returning favors, catching up with old friends, doing things I wasn’t free to do, before.”

“Like post-production.”

Kurt hummed.  “Pretty much.  Right now, there’s a man whose son I got out of prison years ago.”  Blaine resisted the temptation to ask if he _should_ have been in prison.  “We’ve never met in person, but when I asked him to help with some legwork last month, he agreed under the contition that I come to this party.  Some business thing.  I told him I was bringing a date, figured if you weren’t speaking to me, Francisco would gladly tag along.”

“Why would you tell him you’re bringing a date?”  Blaine tilted his head to the side.  “I thought this was, like, your secret life, or something.” 

Kurt glanced over at him.  “Because I wanted to spend time with you, dummy.”  He said, clearly amused.  “I’ve been going alone for so long.”

“And you still…want to spend time with me?”

Kurt looked over again (Blaine was momentarily grateful it wasn’t rush hour) and grabbed his hand, holding it over the center console. 

“Blaine, I’m hurt, don’t get me wrong, and I’m fairly pissed off.  I figure, you’re probably hurt and angry, too.  But I still _like_ you, with your propensity for bowties and drama and inappropriate song choices, with your capacity for romance whenever you’re _not_ trying-“

“Don’t _you_ start, too!”

Kurt smiled at him, eyes bright in the rearview mirror.  “You won my heart with _Teenage Dream_ and _Baby, It’s Cold Outside_ and saving me from certain disfigurement via slushie, all spontaneous.  Trust me, you don’t need big plans.”

“So what now?”

“If you’re still interested…”  He trailed off.  Kurt’s grip got infinitesimally tighter, and Blaine saw that he was biting his lower lip.

Blaine squeezed back.  “I am.  Of course I am.”  It wasn’t an _of course_ yesterday, but he’d had all night to get his head on straight.

Kurt sighed, just a little bit.   The relief on his face was probably just Blaine’s imagination, from the glare.  The sun had _finally_ broken through the clouds, and Blaine went to flip the visor down with his free hand, passing Kurt the sunglasses that fell out as Kurt spoke.  “Then we take it slow.  Date.  Make out like teenagers.  I think if I tried to move right in, we’d kill each other within a month because we’re just not _used_ to each other anymore.  I still have a lot of business, but I do plan to settle in New York, as it’s always been my home of heart.  So- we can try.”

Blaine swallowed around the lump in his throat.  “Yeah, that sounds- that sounds good.  And Kurt?”

“Mmhmm?”

“I’m glad you’re back.”  He started, and then thought- “ _in the atmosphere, with drops of Jupiter in your hair, oh yeah.”_ He crooned. 

“No.  Oh, no.  Not Train!”  Kurt giggled as Blaine kept singing.  “ _He acts like summer and walks like rain, reminds me that there’s time to change.”_

Kurt kept protesting because _those lyrics never made sense, Blaine!_ Until the chorus, where he laughed and joined in right along with Blaine.

They pulled up at a regular-looking house and Blaine laughed.  “I have to admit, I was expecting a mansion, or a creepy warehouse, or something." 

Kurt rolled his eyes.  “It’s the Boston Mob, darling.  They _are_ normal around here.” He skirted around the front of the car to open Blaine's door, which Blaine allowed with only a raised eyebrow. 

They walked, hand in hand, up the driveway of a stranger’s house.  In the coming days, they would work on weaving the strands of their lives back together.  It would take longer than if they’d started eight years ago, because there were so many more strands and complications to untangle before they could start weaving.  In the end, though, their mess of thread would turn into a stronger cord, a stronger bond than the simple square knot of their youth ever was.  
But for now, hand-in-hand was a bond enough, because they were together, and nothing else really mattered, did it? 

 

The End 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a fan of long A/Ns, so I'll keep this short:  
> This is the longest thing I've ever written, so if you've got a criticism or problem, PLEASE tell me. I will thank you forever for making me a better writer.
> 
> DVD extras y/n? If someone wants to write or co-write one, I'd be open to that, too. Missing scenes or Francisco threesomes, whatever.
> 
> If you didn't see the easter egg, the link is back at the beginning of chapter 13, where Puck stumbles into Finn's "ridiculous van". 
> 
> I'm writing for the kurt_ot3bang this summer, so keep an eye out for that!
> 
> And last but certainly not least, THANK YOU EVERYBODY for reading and commenting and kudos-ing, you're awesome.


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